


Vespertine

by Shadow_Maven



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Alternate-Universe, Complete, F/M, Fantasy, Gothic, Horror, Mystery, Paranormal, Romance, Supernatural Elements, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 84,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Maven/pseuds/Shadow_Maven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A puzzling Patronus, a strange summons and a dark obsession draw Hermione into a plot laced with murder, intrigue and untold delight. But all is not as it seems: desire has teeth and this kind of love really bites!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and elements that comprise the wonderful world of Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing to create a non-profit piece of fan fiction for my own, and hopefully your, amusement. All original characters, plot elements, and situations appearing herein are mine, however. 
> 
> This AU story contains adult themes and situations, explicit violence, and character death. All events occur after those of HPDH. 
> 
> FYI: I used to be known as BrownRecluse (a name change was long overdue). 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters and elements that comprise the wonderful world of Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing them, with a nod of deep gratitude to Bram Stoker (and Charles Dickens), to create a non-profit piece of fan fiction.
> 
> Also, just in case you haven’t checked my profile, I used to be known as BrownRecluse (a name change was long overdue). ;D
> 
> Enjoy!

**Prologue**

 

Everyone thought Severus Snape was dead. There could be no doubt about that, no questioning the undeniable and irreversible finality of his non-existence: Harry Potter said it was so.

Harry Potter, who had just slain the greatest dark wizard in history and who also discovered Snape just in time to hear his deathbed confession, now proclaimed that Severus Snape was not the murderer of a much-beloved former Headmaster but a hero. A hero! Although his declaration caused more than a few raised eyebrows, those who believed differently held their tongues. They'd had enough of fighting. They tended the injured, searched for the missing, and buried all of the dead, save one, whose interment demanded privacy, if not secrecy.

While Hogwarts gradually emptied, the castle began mending itself. Its stone guardians set their weapons aside and began reassembling its towers, bridges, and retaining walls, ensuring that its essential structures would hold. Day and night, stones grated and shifted, and the earth shuddered, sending up great clouds of steam and smoke. Once Hogwarts regained some outward semblance of its former self, the guardians, as if heeding some unspoken command, returned to their rightful places in the walls outside the Great Hall.

The last families departed, leaving only the staff that lived at the school year-round to wait for the arrival of yet another magical army: the dwarf masons, painters, and carpenters who would complete necessary interior repairs before the school could reopen in the fall.

The castle settled on its foundation, the moon moved on her ceaseless circuit, and everyone  _knew_  that Severus Snape was dead—dead as a doorknob—and there's the rub! Because the devil's in the details, is he not?

The devil's always in the details, if not in the man himself...

 


	2. The Serpent and the Dragon

# The Serpent and the Dragon

 

The tomb had been mended but not without a scar. Sybill Trelawney traced the fissure with her fingertips. The bluish crack began in the shadows beneath its domed lid and sliced though the sigil inscribed on the stone's pale face, breaching triangle and circle, but stopping short of its center mark. Water dribbled down her arms and beaded her hair. It had been raining all day and by the look of the sky in the west, low and glaucous over the mist-shrouded lake, it would rain again. She sighed. It had done nothing but rain since the battle ended over a fortnight ago; the heavens washed clean the land, while Professor Dumbledore lay in his evergreen bower. She rested her head against the stone. "Poor Albus, safe and snug, but now, no longer alone. Why didn't you say something then? Why won't you now?"

A hand on her shoulder startled her. "Here now, Sybill. That won't do."

She looked up. For such a hulk of a man, Hagrid could step through the forest as daintily as a doe. "I just thought that he or one of them might speak to me." One hand indicated the cenotaph behind Dumbledore's tomb. Girding three of its sides like a low retaining wall, slabs of polished grey stone honored the Fifty Fallen, magical creatures, and finally, the staff and students who had lost their lives at the Battle of Hogwarts. Bouquets of wildflowers, many now wilted, dotted the dark earth along the memorial's base. "There should be so many ghosts in the castle now, yet the halls are empty and silence prevails. Don't you think it's strange?"

"Well, even dead folks gotta adjust; that'd be my guess. They just need more time is all." When she left the tomb to ponder the names on the cenotaph, he followed.

"But even Sir Nick and the Baron have gone off." She looked up at him. "You know something's wrong when one of them won't venture an opinion." When he started to laugh, she warned it away with a shake of her finger. "And something is wrong, Hagrid. It's as if they're afraid of something. All of them."

"Now, Sybill, it won't do to be dwellin' on that just now." Leaning in, he whispered, "They're well within earshot and you know how some of 'em get when you talk like that."

"Are they? How can you tell?" Sybill squinted into the fog. "All I see are shades of grey, each moving against the other, soundless and insubstantial as...ghosts."

When she pulled her dark shawl about her shoulders, the movement only accentuated the sharpness of the collarbones that jutted like a pair of skeletal wings beneath the scooped neck of her dress, a deep green that made every tendon in her neck stand out in bold relief.

"Well, the dead might be quiet but the livin' are making enough ruckus for 'em both. Snappin' twigs and slippin' on stones: I'd know that pair of hob-nailed boots in the dark. An'if you listen real close," he said, cocking his head and cupping one ear dramatically, "you can hear those bright bits jingle on the Minister's robes. He's right fond of flash and tinkle, our new Minister is." He winked at her.

"Hagrid, that's disrespectful. Those are cultural talismans!" She tried to sound stern but a corner of her mouth twitched.

"Beads and baubles and shiny threads?" Hagrid gawped at her.

"Spells can be sewn as well as said."

"Well, I had one of them talismans on my house last year, it were supposed to protect me from fire. Fat lot of good it did. Half me larder went up in smoke and the roof still leaks like a sieve."

"At least you still have a house." She wanted to say more, but the sound of clicking boots and the burble of voices stopped her. The mists parted and Headmistress McGonagall stepped through their filmy veils on the arm of Kingsley Shacklebolt. The two made an odd pair: one corseted in stiff bombazine, the other resplendent in eggplant brocade robes. When she saw the sequins and trinkets that edged his sleeves and dotted his cap, Sybill giggled behind her hand.

"It's not often one sees the two of you together or in such high spirits," McGonagall said as she approached, the crispness that edged her tone a warning for them to adopt decorum more suitable to the occasion.

Nodding stiffly, Kingsley said, "Nice to see you, Professor Trelawney. Ah, Hagrid! Is everything ready?"

"Ready as it'll ever be."

"I do appreciate your standing in at the last minute," McGonagall said. Behind her, Poppy and Arthur Weasley emerged from the mist.

"Least I could do," said Hagrid. "He set quite a store by Severus, old Argus did. I'd have hoped he'd come back to himself by now."

"How is he, Poppy?"

"Sedated. He should sleep through the night and not give you any trouble. Still..." She paused to brush a cluster of needles from her skirt, then looked up and said, "It doesn't feel right, leaving you like this."

"I don't know what we would have done without you, but now your family needs you more." Minerva patted her arm. "Hagrid will be here until the morning; after that, Sybill and I will be more than capable of handling things on our own. Won't we, dear?" She favored the professor with a pointed glance.

"Molly's with the children," said Arthur in a loud voice, although no one had asked. "She said it would be best." He nodded, a man trying to convince himself of the impossible. "Said they'd been through enough and she didn't want them followed, hounded by—" He stopped and stared over the lake. "I knew it! Something's moving out there."

"Yep, I see 'em, too." Hagrid waved as Harry and a very ashen-faced Hermione swooped through the fogbanks and landed on the lakeshore.

"You promised me you'd stay at the Burrow!"

"We promised we wouldn't be seen," said Hermione breathlessly.

Hagrid chuckled. "Come now, Arthur, you didn't think you'd keep them two away, did you?"

After they'd made their way to the rest of the group and exchanged greetings, Kingsley said, "Well, now that we're all here, shall we commence?"

"It's a shame; we're so few," Sybill said as she surveyed the group. "Still, eight's a fortunate number: one of profound, mystical significance." Her eyes watered as she sniffled.

"Truth be told, probably eight more than he would have wanted," Hagrid said.

"And some would say, more than he deserved," Arthur huffed as he joined them. Harry and Hermione exchanged a weary but knowing look.

"Who, Arthur?" Minerva regarded him narrowly over the tops of her spectacles. "Those fond of speaking before they think, perhaps?"

"I'm merely restating a public sentiment." Arthur swept an arm over the group. "We've all heard it; don't say you haven't."

The narrow look turned glacial. "Then why bother to say it at all?"

Harry opened his mouth but Hermione squeezed his hand so hard his bones cracked. However simple a gesture, its message was quite clear:  _Don't._

"As I've said before—"

"Repeatedly, yes."

"—the catacombs would've been better. They're safer and much easier to guard."

Skirts swishing, she rounded on him. "They're also underwater as of this morning, Arthur, in case you'd forgotten. No. Severus' will was quite clear about the location of his final resting place and I will not deny him that. Nor will you." She shook her finger at him. "It's what he wanted."

"I'm not trying to deny him anything," he said, face reddening to the tips of his ears, "but when news of this gets out—and it will—"

"Arthur, we discussed this." Kingsley's tone cut the dampness like a straightedge. "Now is not the time to argue amongst ourselves but join together to mourn a fallen hero."

"Snape a hero? My son was a— My son..." Weasley started to splutter, but when he saw the pained looks that crossed Harry and Hermione's faces, he tried a different tack. "Yes, of course you're right; forgive me, Minerva. I only meant that the castle wards have been weakened—some broken altogether—and there have already been incidents of trespass—you told me so yourself."

"Let them come. I'm sure Severus anticipated that particular posthumous contingency and has something quite spectacular in store for those who would defile his tomb. A wizard's last spell is often his most potent."

Sybill stared into the forest that rose behind Dumbledore's sepulcher. A bat flew out of the trees and disappeared over the lake. She shuddered. "Is it a nice spot, Hagrid? Do you think he'll rest? Sometimes, I swear I still feel him—"

"Come along, it's going to be dark soon," Minerva said sharply. "Hagrid, would you do the honors?"

"It's this way." He led them to a low-hanging evergreen bough. This he lifted, showering the ground with stray needles and water droplets. "I cleared a path as best I could but there's still plenty to trip you up, so watch yer steps."

One by one, the mourners stepped through. Weasley, the last in line, paused at the entrance. "I'm just saying you should have thought things through," he muttered, and cast a worried look behind him.

"We weren't followed," Harry said in a low voice. "I promise you."

"I hope you're right."

The branch concealed a small glade amidst the massive tree trunks, a space girded by exposed roots and carpeted in needles. These crackled softly underfoot, releasing a spicy, but somehow still sinister scent. In its center, encircled by floating lanterns of green and silver, and draped in a standard bearing the Slytherin crest, was a long, low oblong made of rough, dark stone. Unlike the lakeside tomb, its lid was flat and its sides unadorned.

Sybill moaned and hid her face in her hands. Arthur came to her aid, slipping a protective arm about her shoulders. As he guided her closer into the viewing space, he commented on the beautifully colored lanterns and then, the thread used to embroider the ceremonial drapery. "Just look at the scales of that snake, would you, Sybill; such infinitesimal stitches! That's spun silver in the banner if I'm not mistaken, truly remarkable workmanship."

"It was a gift from the Malfoys." Minerva tossed her head and sniffed. "Lucius insisted."

"I still can't...can't believe..." Sybill trailed off, sniffling. She slipped a hand into her sleeve, which only made her to want to cry all over again. Why, at the time she most needed one, why was she always without a tissue? She daubed her nose with a corner of her shawl.

"Here Sybill, there's a dear." This time Poppy came to her aid, flourishing a small but serviceable handkerchief. "You and Molly have been in my thoughts," she whispered around Sybill to Arthur. "You'll tell her, won't you?"

"She's at the cottage with the children."

"You two are the strongest couple I know, Arthur." Poppy touched his arm lightly. "She'll come around. Why, you've been together for what now, twenty-five years?"

"Twenty-nine next month." He looked away.

"Eternity..."

Poppy looked over at Sybill. "What did you say, dear?"

"There!" She indicated the crest. "I've never seen the Slytherin snake do that before; it's always been represented as the letter 'S' but the tail, the stitches—look!" Her hand trembled over the spot where the letter should have ended.

"I'd hoped we'd avoid a scene today," McGonagall whispered to Kingsley. Gliding over, she elbowed past Weasley. "Yes, it is quite clever. Don't you think so, Miss Granger?"

But Hermione's gaze was on Trelawney, who'd taken on a dazed look and now, began to sway. "Eternity..." she said again in a low, drawn tone.

Minerva continued, her voice growing shriller with each word, "See here, Sybill. The body doesn't end with the letter but the scales blend with the background, becoming almost invisible as the body curves back upon itself. The serpent, swallowing its tail, forms a—a—"

"A lemniscate," said Hermione, finally breaking her silence.

"Exactly so, and as Sybill observed earlier with our number, this is yet another symbol for eternity," said McGonagall, one hand worrying the brooch at her neck, "one representing the endless cycle of the seasons—life's continual renewal."

"The Eternal Return," Sybill intoned dully.

Kingsley shot Arthur a nervous glance.

Poppy pulled at her arm. "Why don't we step back now, Sybill? I think our new Minister would like to begin."

"No." Pitching forward, pushing the drape aside, Sybill prostrated herself across the top of the tomb. "It spoke to me," Sybill said, in a voice whose curious vibrato was hers yet not hers and grew louder with each word. "'Hollow,' it said. 'Hollow!'" She smacked the lid with the palms of her hands. "He does not sleep! He is not here!"

Light waned and wind soughed through the tree limbs. Arthur hurried to Kingsley. After a brief but heated discussion, the two disappeared behind one of the large tree trunks.

The Malfoy's memorial banner shot over her head, where it unfurled and burst into flames. Sparks showered down but Sybill, still captive in her trance, continued to sway. "The moon will weep and blood will run! He does not sleep. He is not here! He. Is. Not. HERE!"

"Hagrid, help me!" Minerva cried. As the two of them dragged Sybill away, the flames twisted and separated, forming a single word over Snape's crypt:  _Traitor._

From behind the group came another, blinding flash. "Severus Snape's death a hoax! My sources were right!" Rita Skeeter's voice boomed. She sauntered into the glade with a photo-drone on one side and a Quick-Quotes Quill on the other. "Ooh, and who do we have here? Harry Potter, helping Hogwarts newest Headmistress hide a notorious war criminal!" The pen scratched furiously, while the camera zoomed into position. Another flash blinded all but one of the mourners.

 _"Reducto!"_  One word from Hermione and the flying camera exploded.

"Get out of here, you harpy." McGonagall raised her wand.

Unshaken, Skeeter tossed her unnatural platinum curls. "Now, there's no need for that. By the morrow, however, everyone will know the truth." As she began to back away, Arthur Weasley reappeared with two men in Aurors' robes, although neither of them looked older than Hermione.

"Take her to the edge of the grounds and confiscate her quill," he said.

"Abusing your new position already, Arthur?" Skeeter sneered at him. "You're no better than Yaxley."

Hermione stepped forward. "That's not enough!" Her Confundus Charm rendered Skeeter vacant-eyed.

Weasley waited until the Constables bore Skeeter away and then, he turned on Hermione. "That was terribly reckless of you. It won't last, you know."

"Long enough." She crossed her arms. "By the time it wears off, Harry will be out of the country."

"I told you that something like this would happen." Then, shaking his fist at Minerva, he said, "I warned you too, but you wouldn't listen. None of you ever do."

Minerva looked about the glade. "Arthur, what have you done with Kingsley?"

"I took him back to the Ministry, of course, although I'm sure it's not what Snape would have wanted"—he glared at her. "I think it's time we all went, too. I mean it, Minerva. As Head of Magical Law Enforcement as well as your friend, I'm declaring these proceedings officially over."

"Did something happen? Is the service over already?" A confused Sybill looked up at them. The letters over her head sparked once more, before spluttering out.

"Yes and 'twas a very moving ceremony," Hagrid said, helping her up. "Now we'll head back up to the castle and have us a little refreshment, what do you say?" Nodding weakly, Sybill allowed him to lead her away.

"Not too much refreshment, Hagrid," McGonagall called after him. "I don't want to find her weaving about the corridors in search of ghosts." Then, under her breath, she said, "I'm surprised she hasn't fallen and broken her neck."

"As I said, considering what's just happened, I think it would be best if we all—"

"Yes, yes, Arthur, alright," she said crossly. "If you would be so kind to escort Poppy to her home, it's just outside Lost Whistle Bridge, I will see Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger to their respective domiciles."

After exchanging a tearful goodbye hugs, Poppy extended an open hand to Arthur. "Have you ever even been to Wales?"

"I'll just have to let you imagine it for both of us," he grumbled, and after a final caution to the rest of the group to be safe, clasped her hand and disappeared.

Silence fell with the night. For what seemed a long time, the three stood at the tomb, heads bowed, each paying their respects. As though following a wordless command, the floating lanterns broke formation, gathered over the stone lid, and coalesced into a single tongue of pale, green flame. As it licked upward, a shape, pellucid and white, spiraled out. It hovered over the stone, an apparition ghostly scaled and luminous eyed. Then, to the amazement of all, it stretched its transparent wings, opened its fearsome jaws, and said:

_Shall I lead you on?_

_Let me show you a path with no end and no beginning._

_You, who do not know the sound of one hand, cling_

_Too tightly to the sound and the dust._

_Let me lead you on._

_I will show you the path without end, without beginning._

"An impressive spell and appropriate sentiment; he was a Slytherin to the end," McGonagall whispered through her tears. "Well done, Severus."

"No, don't you see? It's..." The words caught in Hermione's throat. "It's a Patronus."

"That's impossible," Harry said. "Snape's Patronus was a doe, like my mother's; everyone knows that."

"Unless he changed it." Hermione turned to McGonagall. "Professor, can a wizard change his Patronus?"

"No dear; no wizard can," she said. "Nor have I ever heard of one altering after death. I expect it's something that held a special affinity for Severus, although we'll never know for certain. It, much like the best of him, will forever remain a mystery." Her voice quavered. "I'm afraid this is where I must leave you. Unlike Mr. Weasley, I trust that both of you will find your way to your respective homes. Be well, both of you." Before the two could say a word, she dissipated like smoke in the wind.

"That was certainly abrupt."

"She looked exhausted. What do you think it means?" Harry asked, edging closer to the tomb.

Hermione stared at the dragon. "No idea but it is beautiful, though."

"Do you think there's any truth in what Professor Trelawney said?"

She snorted. "Trelawney's daft and she's probably been drinking. The one night we're here to honor Professor Snape, she has to make a spectacle of herself, raving about empty graves and bloody moons."

"One of her predictions came true," Harry said.

"If she's even capable of producing one at all, I imagine Trelawney's Patronus is a bottle of cooking sherry."

"What's gotten into you, Hermione? Are you channeling Snape's spirit, now?" Wide-eyed, he stepped back. "You sounded just like him."

"I'm sorry, Harry. That was mean of me." She looked away. "I'm just angry; angry at Sybill for robbing him of his last honors, angry at Ron for being such a stubborn arse, and most of all, angry at myself."

"You saw his wounds that day. We all did." Harry slipped an arm around her. "There was nothing more we could have done."

"I still can't believe we just left him like that." Tears trickled down her cheeks and splashed against the stone.

The phantom dragon collapsed upon itself. Where it had been only a moment before, eight lanterns now hovered. In turn, each began shrinking into a tiny speck and winking out.

"I guess that's our cue to go," said Harry. "I've got to get an early start tomorrow."

"Promise you'll write," she said, hugging him.

"Every day—I imagine Romania's just divine in midsummer." He laughed.

"It beats London."

" _Accio_  Firebolt." In seconds, his broom appeared at his side. "Are you sure I can't give you a lift?"

"One flight today was enough. You know I prefer apparating." She kissed his cheek. After watching him rise over the treetops and out of sight, she turned back to the glade.

A forest orb, green and brittle bright, wafted out of the trees, drifted over to Hermione, and hovered expectantly. For just a moment, she could have sworn she saw Snape's face appear in its eerie glow. "I'm sorry we left you all alone. In the end, what you told Harry saved all our lives," she said. "You will always remain in my thoughts. Goodbye, Professor Snape. Rest in peace."

The light flickered but did not fly away.

Hermione closed her eyes, turned widdershins, and imagined home.

In a heartbeat, she was gone but the light remained.

Time passed; owls hooted, tendrils of mist threaded through the trees, and the breeze loosed small showers from the evergreens, but no one returned. Only then, did the light transform itself into another shape: a man, whose cloak seemed woven from the night itself and whose wounds had healed without a scar.

With footsteps that left no impression in the earth and made no sound, Severus Snape made his way to the rough dais that resembled a sacrificial altar more than a final resting place in a tree lined hollow.

 _Hollow:_  of all her predictions, why did that one have to be true? A smile, jagged and terrible as it was brief, flashed across his face. Jagged and terrible because of what he had always been but cleverly concealed, and brief when he realized what he now had to do. Once Sybill remembered her premonition—and she would—she wouldn't let it go. Like a dog with a bone, she'd gnaw at it: every image, every word.

_The moon will weep and blood will run._

Severus ground a piece of the burned drape into the dirt. Was this his prize for a life spent serving two, equally murderous masters, his earthly reward for leading a secret life—riding two brooms with one arse: a blackened standard and a prophetic betrayal?

A wave of cold rage crashed over him and the dark hunger— _red_  hunger—he'd suppressed for so long now reawakened with a vengeance. Boiling in his loins, coursing like a current, it surged through every fiber of his being. As he had once before, Snape let it flood him, consume him, eclipse him. Blood would run; he'd make sure of it! No longer would he deny his true nature; no longer would he serve anyone's interests, save his own. No longer bound by mortal law, he would take all things that had been denied to him in his past life, his false life! No longer bound by death, he would become its dealer, meting it out in his own time and on his own terms.

Fangs flashed as his lips curved into a cruel grin. Severus knew exactly where and with whom he'd begin.

 


	3. Peacock and Narcissus

# Peacock and Narcissus

 

A breeze, stirring the vines, snuffed her candle and rifled the pages of her book. Narcissa set it aside. Just as well, she thought, the words had started to blur into one another and it hadn't been her intention to fall asleep out here again. She rubbed her eyes and looked about the garden. The sight of so many buds hidden among the leaves gave her hope. Soon there would be clematis in twilight colors and swags of white bougainvillea to curtain the gazebo, but now, only the  _datura_  she charmed year-round lifted their proud trumpets to what was left of the night. Though it was still too early in the season to sit outside, she told herself that she preferred the damp, the chill, and even the wormy smell that always arose from the earth before sunrise. Despite numerous purging spells, an uncomfortable essence still pervaded the manor. She could feel it, unpleasant and oily upon her skin, a film that would never wash away.

She still had nightmares about Charity Burbage.

Lucius said she was imagining things, of course. Just as she'd been "overreacting" when she insisted on taking meals in her room, "hysterical" when she set the dining room table ablaze, and "vindictive" when she moved into the guesthouse at the edge of the garden. Though doing so lessened the frequency of her night terrors, the dark essence remained; Narcissa knew that there were some things not even magic could erase.

She quit her wicker chair, pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and hurried down the gazebo steps to a narrow path bordered with moonstones. Although they felt like ice against her bare feet, their glow always comforted her.

She glanced over the garden at the manor, where lights still blazed in every window. Wondering why Lucius had left them on all night, she started down the path back to the guesthouse. A sudden 'bang' outside the box hedges set all the peacocks screaming but Narcissa barely batted an eye. That would be the paper. Lucius still insisted on receiving his copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ hot off the presses by Nighthawk Express and the damned delivery bird never dropped it in the same place twice.

She waited. When the hedges parted, however, it was not a nighthawk but Lucius who stepped onto the path with the paper.

"Are you a spirit of health or a goblin damned?" Her voice rang through the murky air.

"What?" Startled, he stopped. "What are you doing out here, Cissy? You'll catch your death." He pointed to her bare feet.

Narcissa found herself warming quite fast. "You wore that outfit yesterday."

Lucius brushed a twig from his coat. "My meeting with Skeeter didn't go as planned."

Her eyes blazed, but her words came out frost-edged in puffs of white: "You were with Rita all night?"

Unperturbed, he strode to the gazebo and threw the newspaper on the table. "Have you seen this morning's edition?"

"Why would I bother? There'll be nothing inside of interest." His less than skillful evasion was not lost on her.

"This will interest you, Cissy. Come, take a look."

She joined him, intending to give him a piece of her mind, but when she saw the headline, started to laugh. "'Advice for Antiquers and Artifact Seekers: an In-depth Interview with Messrs. Borgin and Burkes?' Well, it pales in comparison to her usual subject matter, I'll grant you that. Do you think harmless twaddle is a trend she'll continue?"

"Granger attacked her," he said darkly. "That blasted Mudblood confundedher and Weasley did nothing to stop it. Nothing!"

 _Now who's overreacting,_  she thought.

"By the time I rejoined her—"

"After you ran away, you mean." Narcissa's face clouded. "You promised me you'd stay away from Hogwarts. I'm surprised Arthur didn't incinerate you on the spot."

"I'm still on the Board," he huffed. Wicker squeaked as he shifted in his seat. "Sybill Trelawney was there. She said something quite interesting. Someone we thought lost to death has escaped its cold embrace."

"Not Voldemort?" She paled. "I was afraid Potter couldn't pull it off. He didn't have it in him, any more than Draco; they're just boys! He'll come for us; I know it. Even now, I can feel his presence, cold as a cloud across the sun, his desire for vengeance unrelenting as time itself." Pacing beside the table, she said, "We must plan our escape but where can we go? No place on earth is safe. When I think of what almost happened to Draco, I—" The words caught in her throat. She fisted the folds of her gown. "There'll be no new life for us, no start afresh. We'll never be free of him, Lucius. Never!"

"Oh darling, there you go again, jumping to conclusions."

"I'm not 'jumping' at anything," she snapped.

"I assure you, the Dark Lord is quite dead. This is someone closer to us: a former member of our ranks." Lucius leaned back in his chair and smiled. "It's quite fascinating and most opportune, considering there's still a price on his head."

"Well, you've narrowed it down to what's left of the Death Eaters, Lucius." She prodded his arm. "Who is it?"

"Someone with whom you once made an Unbreakable Vow."

Sinking down on the balustrade in relief, she laughed. "That's preposterous! Severus is dead."

"An elaborate hoax, according to Trelawney, and they're all in on it: McGonagall, Potter, and even Weasley. Oh, but you haven't heard the best part." Patting her hand, Lucius said, "Why don't I make us a nice pot of tea and tell you all about it."

For the second time before sunrise, Narcissa found herself on the verge of incredulity. "You? Make tea?"

"I think you'll find me quite adequate to the task," Lucius said, "I'll even use your favorite service: the silver one from Borgin and Burkes."

Her smile guttered like a candle flame in a gust. "No. I won't drink from those cups. I won't touch anything his lips touched."

"Cissy, please come back!"

"We'll drink from  _my_ mugs or not at all," she said, heading down the winding path to the guesthouse. The mugs, a set she'd had since her schoolgirl days, were about the only thing on their property Voldemort's presence hadn't sullied. "Wait here."

"She had one of her premonitions—right there at his tomb," he called after her, watching as she glided down the path, around a high trellis of ivy, and out of sight. He wondered briefly if that was a new dressing gown and why she'd taken to wearing pastels. He preferred her in dark colors but made a mental note to compliment her,  _after_ telling her his news, of course. Knowing she'd return soon, he began rehearsing, mouthing the words and attempting to mimic Sybill's frothy gestures.He hoped the thought of a dangerous wizard on the run would be enough to make her see reason; he wanted his wife back in his house, back in his bed. He tilted the chair back and closed his eyes. Yes, his bed most of all.

A noise nearby stilled his musing. "Is that you, Cissy?"

The rustling stopped. He heard a small gasp and then, rattling and grating sounds that set his teeth on edge. He started up. "Would you like some help, darling?"

Ceramic shattered and silver clattered against stone. Lucius shot out of his chair. "Cissy!"

Too late.

Narcissa crashed through the ivy trellis. Spurting from the wound at her throat, gobbets of blood slopped down the front of her gown and over the paving stones like a dark river of doom. Mouthing words that ended in gasps and gurgles, she staggered forward, twisted her ankle in the vines, and fell, landing face up at Lucius' feet. The wound at her throat gaped up at him like a toothless, second mouth.

"Blood will run. I wonder how she knew." Severus stepped through hole in the ruined trellis. A dark substance ringed his mouth and hands.

Malfoy drew his wand. "You," he spat.

"Because I could always stopper Death, she could not stopper me. Well, at least not that easily." He licked the blood from his fingers.

 _Narcissa's blood._  Lucius' gorge rose but his hand tightened around his wand.

"Hmm, it's quite bitter, not as salty as I'd imagined and lacking an essential warmth, but you already know that."

"Get off my land," Lucius growled.

"Is that any way to treat a guest? I just wanted to thank you for your thoughtful but premature memorial gift. What's the matter, Lucius? You look like you've seen a ghost. Don't worry, you'll be one soon enough." Eyes glittering, he slowly stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

"You'll pay for this," he said.

"That's rich, coming from someone who would have gladly sacrificed his only son to curry favor with a madman. Righteous indignation doesn't suit you, Lucius; I think six feet of cold earth would be a much better fit. Nevertheless..." Leering toothily, Snape opened his arms. "Go ahead, Malfoy, take your best shot. At this range, even a berk like you couldn't miss."

Lucius thrust his wand at Snape and screamed:  _"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

A fireball shot from its tip and hit Snape squarely in the chest. Lucius howled with delight but his victory cry quickly turned to one of shocked disbelief when Snape plucked the fiery curse from his breast with his bare hand and threw it back. Rebounding on its caster, it blasted a hole in Malfoy's chest, dissolving his heart and killing him instantly. He careened forward and fell atop the body of his beloved bride.

"A pity," Snape muttered. "I'll have to look elsewhere for a bite."

 

 


	4. The Hazards of Wishful Displacement

 

 

# The Hazards of Wishful Displacement

**Part I**

Expecting to see a familiar house, Hermione opened her eyes and found herself standing in the middle of Diagon Alley. Fire had gutted many of its shops. Their broken windows stared balefully back at her, like sockets of empty eyes. She struggled to find a logical explanation—because there just had to be one—why she'd been blown off course.

It didn't take very long to arrive at one. Before the war, apparating hadn't been allowed on school grounds. She'd probably made accidental contact with the vestiges one of those wards when casting her spell and landing in the middle of a dark, deserted street was now the result.

Glass shattered nearby; rough voices hooted.  _Not so deserted then._  She closed her eyes, conjured an image of her mother playing the piano, and quickly turned again.

She didn't recognize the place at first. In the dark, all forests looked alike. Then she heard something moving towards her through the trees: something very large. "Lumos," she said, her voice an almost-bark. Eyes, too near, flashed white. Hermione screamed. Startled, the doe leapt over a boulder, splashed through a pond, and then fled into the woods.

Hermione plopped down beside a fallen log to catch her breath. The rocks, the pool, the little clearing just beyond: now she recognized the old campsite. While it had been  _a_  home for a time, it still wasn't  _her_  home. Obviously, she'd done something wrong again. Leaning back, she let the night close in around her and recalled Professor Twycross' lecture on the subject: 'One has but to recall The Three D's: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. One must be completely determined to reach one's destination, and move without haste, but with deliberation.'

She'd done everything right, so why was she sitting in the middle of the woods with her heart hammering in her chest and her stomach doing somersaults? Hoping her third try would indeed be charmed, she rose on shaky legs, closed her eyes, and turned widdershins.

"Merlin's beard!" A cup clattered against a saucer and Arthur Weasley looked up from a puddle of tea on the kitchen table. "You gave me quite a fright, Hermione. I thought you'd gone. Did you forget something?"

"Apparently. Did you have any difficulty traveling tonight, Mr. Weasley?"

"Not at all," he said, mopping up the spill. "Why?"

Sinking down on the bench opposite him, she told Arthur all about her adventures inapparating _._  When she'd finished, he said, "You're right, it could very well be vestigial magic. When so much numinous energy is released in one place, it's bound to leave shadows of itself behind. I could feel traces of it at Hogwarts earlier tonight. Add inexperience to that mix—now, don't argue, Hermione, you're still new at this. I'm sure that's all it is but just to be safe, I think you should stay here tonight. I'll take you to London with me in the morning. You can catch the Tube from the Ministry. Whatever it is, it's best you let it wear off. I wouldn't want you landing in the middle of some Welsh moor."

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley. I think I'll turn in now," Hermione said. She started to rise but then stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! Something very odd happened after you left."

He leaned across the table. "Not another premonition, I hope?"

Hermione told him what she'd witnessed at Snape's tomb. "It talked about a path with no end and no beginning, almost as if it were trying to warn us off."

"It's a riddle, certainly, a sanguine one at that." His face clouded. "Are you sure the specter was a dragon?"

"At first, I thought it was a Patronus but Snape's was a doe, and Professor McGonagall said that no wizard could ever have two. Do you think that's true?"

"We knew so little of Severus; perhaps it's a familial symbol of some sort. Whatever it is, its mystery will have to remain until morning." He yawned.

Each headed to bed and night passed without further incident.

Hermione awoke to find Mr. Weasley bustling about the kitchen in high spirits. After breakfast, he whisked her away without a hitch; in a blink, the two materialized in an alley near the Ministry. "Now, you're to go straight home without using magic and stay out of trouble." He hugged her. "Though Hogwarts won't reopen until September, you're still a Head Girl, remember."

"Believe me, Mr. Weasley, I never try to find trouble," Hermione said, laughing. "I never have to."

He waved her off with a smile. Her words from the night before as well as Sybill's strange pronouncement still haunted him, but he'd be damned if he'd let either ruin his good humor. He made a mental note to visit the Department of Mysteries and then, slipped down the alley and through a familiar back entry.

**Part II.**

Being a department head had its perks. The line was shorter and the stall more spacious. The loo had a low cistern with a silver button on one side and the water in the bowl was always the color of a summer sky. The stall's sides, cool to the touch, looked like slabs of green stone, but the railings that ran the length of them were, to Arthur's mind, the nicest part of all—no more sloshing and sliding about. Using these now, he hoisted himself up, stepped inside, and when he was ready, pressed the button. A whish-swoosh later he was standing in the Ministry's Apparation Foyer.

He made his way down into the main concourse, admiring the new fountain at its center: a circular pool edged in smooth stone from whose center jets of colored water erupted at regular intervals. Overhead, on an enormous screen, Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Muggle Prime Minister beamed down as they shook hands. Well, Kingsley was beaming but Mr. Blair's smile looked a little thin. Chuckling to himself, he waited for three words to appear at the bottom of the image, a slogan summarizing Kingsley's agenda for his term: Unity, Equality, and Tranquility. It was a beautiful a sentiment for what promised to be a beautiful day!

Humming to himself, he headed around the fountain to the edge of the concourse, passing a kiosk that held the latest editions of the  _Quibbler_ and  _Daily Prophet_. He picked up a copy of the latter and after exchanging pleasantries with the attendant, scanned its headlines. No mention of Hogwarts or clandestine memorial services anywhere: perfect. It was a new day, a gorgeous day indeed, he decided, one made even more glorious by the owl he'd received just after sunrise: Molly was coming home.

"Mr. Weasley! You're just the person I'd hoped to see," Connie Burbage, Charity's niece, looked up from behind the display of Muggle artifacts she was installing on a series of wooden display tables. The torch that ran on a thumb switch, the palm-sized radio, and the fat fellow with the light-up nose he recognized instantly; they'd occupied space on the shelves of his old office for years. Concerning the last one, while he didn't quite understand the purpose of teaching children complex surgical procedures, he loved the sound that red-nosed bloke made when someone touched him in the wrong spot.

He noticed she'd also painted a series of colored spots on the floor. Next to these was something resembling a weathervane, only one indicating colored hands and feet where the cardinal points should have been. Behind it was a sign: Test Your Agility in a Game of Twister (No Magic Required). When he'd been promoted, Kingsley had allowed him to choose his successor in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department; naturally, he'd chosen Connie, a witch who'd been raised by Muggles. She had Charity's curly hair and bright smile. At the moment, she was also standing in the midst of a hopeless tangle of black and orange plastic cords, whose near ends converged in a long, black box.

"I've never seen one of these before," he said. "Do they bite?"

"Only if you're careless." She pulled one out of the box and held it up for him. It had three prongs at the end. "And of course, only if there's a power source. I'd hoped to install a completely interactive display, something that would really give wizards a taste of Muggle life—let them stand in those shoes, so to speak—but to do that, I'll need electricity." She indicated a large box with a glass front and an aerial on top. "Do you know where the Ministry's ley line infrastructure overlaps with the Muggle power grid? I know there must be outlets around here somewhere, I just need to lift the edge of the cloaking veil."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Ministry Custodianship could help you with that more than I could, but why couldn't you just charm them? Your aunt had a smaller one of these telly-visions at Hogwarts and it ran just fine without electricity."

"She did—and Professor Dumbledore knew?"

"He allowed it for educational purposes. His favorite show was a documentary about time travel: 'Doctor Who.'"

Connie spluttered and dropped the cord.

"I'll bet her things are still at Hogwarts," he said. "I'll send for them, if you like."

Still giggling, Connie said, "Yes, thank you. That would be nice."

"Mr. Weasley! You've gotta come now! There's been a breach—well, not a breach exactly, but he's there again and he won't go and Miss Puddergust says that if you don't get rid of him for good this time, she'll send him back to St. Mungo's in a purse! I don't know why a  _purse_ , exactly, but I think she'll do it." A breathless girl who couldn't have been older than Ginny tugged at his arm. He didn't recognize her, but the steel grey robe she wore told him immediately  _where_  she worked and who the  _he_  in question was.

"Not Lockhart again?" A corner of his mouth twitched. Arthur always found Gilderoy's impromptu visits amusing.

The girl nodded. "We keep telling him, the Department of Willful Relocation doesn't exist to fulfill romantic wishes, but he won't listen. I don't know how he slipped past Security this time, but he just burst in, insisting that we send him into the arms of his true love. Now the family we were about to relocate is terrified and their Adjustment Supervisor is in an uproar."

"I assure you, he's quite harmless: the poor man can't remember his own name most of the time, much less another wizard's." Arthur said. "Still, I'll have a talk with his Healer and have his day passes rescinded." Nodding his good-bye to Connie, he started away with the girl, only to have an officer cut him off at the elevators.

"Sir, I need you to dispatch a team of Aurors," he said. "It's urgent."

"A team, you say? Where and for what?"

"Wiltshire. The Manor."

He didn't have to say which manor. "What's Lucius Malfoy gotten up to now?"

"There's been a murder, Sir."

**Part III.**

After a short Tube ride and a long walk, Hermione found herself staring at a familiar brick house covered in climbing ivy and a silly shrub that always reminded her of a giant, green gumdrop. Home: she was finally home! She plucked the spare key from the hollow of a ceramic frog, grateful that some things never changed. No car sat in the drive but her parents always liked to leave early for work. She didn't know what she would say to them, but having the day to herself would give her all the time she needed to form an explanation. Expecting to be alone, she turned the key in the lock and stepped through the front door.

A half-eaten plate of egg and chips sat beside a large mug of tea on the coffee table, while a BBC News report played quietly on the television. She dropped her backpack by the couch and walked over to the island that separated the living area and kitchen, but saw no one about. Nor could she hear anyone moving in the small room just off the kitchen, which served as her parents' informal office. "Mom? Dad?"

"About time you've returned."

Hermione screeched. Turning, she found the family housekeeper, Mrs. Stokes, scowling at her from the basement door. "Oh, it's just you," she said to the diminutive woman who always wore a red scarf over her curlers.

"Didn't mean to startle you." She bustled into the living room, gathered up her dishes, and placed them on the stone-topped island. "Did you have a nice trip?"

"The Tube took longer than I thought."

"Did it now?" Mrs. Stokes nodded knowingly.

"I guess my parents are still on holiday then," she said in the most nonchalant tone she could muster.

"Holiday? That's rich. They're right where you sent them, my girl. I knew that couldn't have been their idea to just pick up stakes and pack off to Australia, and when I saw what you did to those pictures over yonder, I knew for sure. You had to take the train here; apparating didn't work."

"Appa—how did you know?"

"Dumbledore posted me here, straight after your eleventh birthday. He did it for all students of vulnerable birth. Know  _why_  it didn't work?" She pointed to a cluster of oddly composed family photos on the mantle. "You  _Obliviated_  your own parents, you foolish girl. Now, just like them, this house has no memory of you. None. You never lived here because you were never born." She waited for this to sink in. "I've been waiting a long time to tell you that. Do you have any idea what an utterly cruel and stupid thing you've done?"

"I did what I had to do to protect them," Hermione said, tilting her chin. "The spell should've worn off by now."

"Oh, and it would've, were they wizards; didn't they teach you anything at school? That's why there's  _rules_  about using magic on Muggles."

Face flushing, Hermione said, "Then I'll find them and reverse the spell."

Mrs. Stokes laughed. "It doesn't work that way, girl; you should know that by now. That charm's got to weaken in its own way and in its own time. It could take at least a year or maybe more, that is, if it ever breaks at all." Mrs. Stokes charmed her dishes clean and put them in the cupboard. "Plenty of time for you to think, so I'll leave you to it. Dumbledore's gone and you're old enough to take care of yourself; my work here's done." She vanished.

 _Cruel and stupid...No memory...Never born..._  Hermione threw herself on the sofa and bawled.

 


	5. In Ars, Veritatem

Same disclaimer: The Potterverse is the province of J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing her characters for a bit of non-profit fun.

 

 

# In Ars, Veritatem

**Part I**

While London's fog lifted, morning came late to the Highlands, dragging her feet and trailing her misty skirts through the mud. High in her new apartments, Minerva gazed out the turret's long window over the grounds. This was terrible weather for the workers: mortar wouldn't set, varnish wouldn't dry, and all that waterlogged wood was a nightmare in itself. She sighed. "I don't care how many spells they would've used, today's just not a good day for repairs inside or out." As she scanned the buildings below, great hulks of stone wrapped in fog and shadows, uneasiness crept upon her. "I can't ever remember a spring so dank and dreary," she said, rubbing her arms. 

"Damn the weather. If you ask me, the sooner you set the castle to rights, the better," said a soft voice from higher on the wall. "Once word gets out, they won't come back at all." The honorable and  _extremely-late_  Headmaster Archibald MacNabb tipped his tricorne. "Dwarves are a superstitious lot."

"You're right, Archibald: I didn't ask you." She left the window and returned to the settee, but neither its cheery tartan throw nor her dining companion, who was just now rubbing her tongue with a corner of her shawl, could lift the fug that had settled over her. "What on earth are you doing, Sybill?" 

"I feel like I'fth sthwallowed a cat."

Minerva settled stiffly next to her. "I'm surprised you can feel anything at all."

"That firewhiskey's a deadly quaff. In my day, a real lady wouldn't have touched the stuff." MacNabb drew a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed a spot beneath his nose.

"It'th not the firewhithskey. I alwayth fell like thith after I've had a premonithion." She looked up at him. "Why wouldn't they come back? Wath it something I thaid?"

"You said that Professor McGonagall wasn't the rightful Headmistress. Well,  not with those exact words, but that was the gist." He waved his handkerchief at the portrait of Snape that hung behind Minerva's desk. "I've been anticipating his response, we all have, but there he sits: mute as a stone with a stare to match." 

"Not Headmistress?" Sybill gawped at him.

"Not while the last one's still at large. I'm no seer but I could've told you the same thing," he said. "And don't give me that look, Minerva. While she was diving deeper into her cups, it was all you and Hagrid talked about." He settled into his throne chair with a flourish. We portraits like to listen as much as we like to talk but we see things too, don't we, friends?" Around him, former Heads of Hogwarts murmured in agreement.

"That's enough, Archibald," said Minerva.

"If what you're saying is true, then where's Severus?" Sybill twisted her shawl. "If he's here and he's alive, why is he hiding from us?"

"Why have all the spirits gone? What makes the moon weep and blood run cold? When does a dragon supplant a doe?" Archibald smacked the chair arms so hard his gilt frame rattled. "Are you third eye-blind, woman?"

"Voldemort hexed him! Dark magic should die with its caster but his didn't, and now Severus is out there, wounded and alone. We have to find him!" Sybill sprang from her seat and ran to the door. "Oh, I can't wait to tell Mr. Filch the good news!"

"Find him? Yes and when you do, put a stake through his heart and seal his ashes in a silver urn!" Archibald called after her. 

Minerva glared at him. "You have no proof of that."

"Do you think we portraits—all of us, mind you—were put up just for show? We've been watching Master Snape mix his special brew for over twenty years."

"No, you mustn't say any more!" Helga Hufflepuff shrieked from the opposite wall. "We are bound by the wishes of the Headmaster! To break a vow to him will doom us all!"

"A tincture of Asphodel and Aconite to quell the undead appetite. Isn't that right, Sir?" McNabb gnashed his teeth at Snape's portrait. "You see, he does not refute me! His very silence substantiates his guilt.  He's nothing more than a bloodsucking ghoul!"

Helga dissolved in tears. Ever chivalrous, Phineas Nigellus Black slipped into her frame to comfort her.

"Sybill's predictions are often flawed. If they weren't, over half of our student body would be dead by now. She was simply overcome by grief, " Minerva said. "Tell them, Severus!" But his likeness continued to stare stonily into space.

"He already has, Minerva," McNabb huffed from his frame. "The proof is in the Patronus."

 

**Part II.**

Argus Filch lay in his Infirmary bed. Eyes closed and still muzzy headed from his sedative, he listened to the gears  _click-click_  on the tower clock. Gears, because the old timepiece had lost its hands and much of its face in the skirmishes. While its metal heart stolidly counted down the day, turning the great wheels within wheels that formed its iron carapace, gusts of wind whistled through its broken spaces. One of these errant breezes now whispered to him.

Argus listened, letting it tickle the hair in his ears. It spoke comfort to him, sharing a secret in a voice that was low and soft, and so familiar. Still caught between dreams and waking, Argus smiled; he nodded. 

Moments later, when Professor Trelawney burst into the room, he obeyed the wind in his dream and lay completely still. The wind had something it wanted to share with Sybill. It wasn't a secret like the one it had just shared with him: it was a gift—the kind that would keep on giving, regardless of the wishes of its recipient.

The wind's gift, wrapped in a whiff of green smoke, was a single word. One that would make Sybill go wherever it wanted her to go and know only what it wanted her to know:  _Imperio._

 


	6. Petals in the Wind

Jo Rowling still owns all things Harry Potter; I’m still having a bit of non-profit fun with her characters.

 

 

# Petals in the Wind

Petunia Dursley's pink Playtex gloves were wrist deep in dishwater when the telephone rang. "Sweetheart, could you be a dear and get that," she began out of habit, but then stopped. Vernon and Dudders were watching a James Bond marathon at the Surrey Cineplex, and wouldn't be home until after midnight. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. A quarter to nine? Who on earth could be calling at this hour?

As it rang again, another thought crept like a shadow into her mind.  _Nothing good ever comes of phone calls late at night._   _Harry said we'd be safe here again but what if he were wrong? What if he lied?  What if something terrible has happened to them! I don't know what I'd do if anything—_

The third ring shrilled through the silent house, startling Petunia so badly, she dropped the glass she'd been washing. It shattered on the edge of her stainless steel sink, spraying her apron and the floor with soapsuds and shards. "Bother! That was my favorite iced tea glass!" she wailed.

She pulled her gloves off by the end of the fourth ring. Now wishing she'd learned how to use the new answering machine, shewiped her hands on her apron and headed to the hallway. Glass crunched with every step.  _Ugh!_ she thought,  _now I'll have to scrub the entire floor before my boys come home!_

She snatched the hall phone from its cradle between the sixth and seventh ring. "Dursley residence. This is Petunia speaking," she said, adding to herself,  _and whoever you are, for all the trouble you've already caused, this better be a matter of life and death!_

A long silence greeted her.

"Hello?  _Hello—_ is someone there?" Phone in hand, she scowled.

This time, heavy breathing answered.

"Who is this, please?"

When the breathing quickened to a pant, the hairs on Petunia's nape prickled and her heart began beating in time with the unknown caller's breathing— _because nothing good ever comes of calls late at night!_ White-knuckling the receiver, Petunia said in the sternest voice she could muster, "Dudders? Dudders, is that you ? It's not nice to play such tricks, especially on your own, dear Mummy! You know, pranks like this could give someone a heart attack. Is that what you want, to give Mummy a heart attack? How would you feel then, young man! You wouldn't be so funny anymore, would you!"

A burst of static followed the telltale 'click.'

"Of all the juvenile, inconsiderate things!" She slammed the receiver back in its cradle. "After all we've been through, it's just not fair!" Behind her, something hit the window screen. Petunia shrieked. The curtains shuddered and the screen toppled into the sink with a loud splash. "That's it, I'm calling the police!" She snatched up the phone and punched three buttons.

Static crackled. "They can't help you," a voice intoned on the other end. "No one can..."

Death Eaters. It had to be; she could think of no other explanation. The wizards at the safe house said this might happen. They'd lost the war but would never stop hating, never stop plotting, never stop being Death Eaters. 

Cloth snapped. Petunia dropped the phone and turned, just in time to see a small, dark shape dive through the curtains and careen over the table.

Emboldened by anger, Petunia ripped off her frilly pink apron and stormed into the kitchen. "Get out! Get out! Get out of my house, you horrid thing!" she roared, flapping her apron at it. "You disgusting, disease-ridden rat with wings! Oh, where's Vernon when I need him? Where's my squash racquet? Oh, blast it, I don't even own a squash racquet!" She snatched up a frying pan and began swinging at it. That owl of Harry's had been bad enough, but this was just too much. What if it had fleas—or rabies? She raised the cast iron pan as if it were a cricket bat and as the creature wheeled past, swung with all her might.

A 'thud' Petunia felt in the pit of her stomach sent the bat reeling. Hoping she'd sent it back outside, she tossed the pan on the table, flew to the sink and slammed the window down tight. "And stay out," she screamed after it.

Shaking, nerves utterly unraveled by her night visitor, Petunia braced herself against the sink. She didn't want to think about the broken screen, the broken glass, and the bat germs she knew must be everywhere. As she rubbed her arms, she could feel them, millions of invisible squirmy things seething over her skin. All she wanted was a bath. A nice, hot bath would set her to rights but before she could do that, she had to deal with the curtains and floor, the walls and ceiling. They'd all have to be sterilized. She'd be up all night!

Turning, stifling tears, she found herself staring into the coldest, most penetrating black eyes she'd ever seen.

"Hello, 'Tuney. Remember me?"

His voice turned her spine to jelly. And his teeth! There was something terribly wrong, terribly  _long_  about his teeth.

Petunia's scream died in her throat as Severus fell on her.

 


	7. A Most Confounding Owl

 

**A Most Confounding Owl**

 

Hermione tried every locator spell, applied every theorem of Arithmancy she knew, but efforts to locate her parents proved fruitless, a pendulum swinging in dead air. Because she’d cast the original spell to protect them from all knowledge and memory of her, she began to suspect that in doing so, she’d unknowingly created a protective shield over them from further intrusion. The keen sting of being betrayed by her own magic was almost more than she could bear. While part of her wanted to remain in this house that no longer felt like home, just in case her parents returned, a greater part of her knew that she had to go. Eventually, the neighbors would notice someone living in the house—neighbors who _remembered_ her and who would ask all sorts of awkward questions about _why_ her parents had so suddenly not only disowned but also _disavowed_ their only daughter.

 

Days passed, during which she slipped back into the rhythm she’d grown accustomed to during her months as a fugitive: reading and catnapping during the day, followed by nights of restless watchfulness. While she neither expected nor feared retaliation from the remaining Death Eaters, wary uneasiness dogged her like a second shadow and try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Every noise made her jump, every passing car created a shadow play against the closed curtains, a fleeting parade of ghostly silhouettes of leaves and branches that never failed to set her heart racing and her grip tighten on her wand. For the sake of her own sanity, she had to leave, but Hogwarts was in the midst of repairs and she couldn’t go back to the Burrow. While Grimmauld Place was an option—one with an extensive library—she didn’t relish the thought of staying there with only Kreacher for company. The the tent was still tucked away in her bag but the mere thought of camping out conjured bright neon lights at the top of her Just Hell No list. So, Hermione squatted in the house and waited.

 

The answer came to her late one balmy afternoon. Tired of staying cooped up indoors, she’d allowed herself a rare treat: supper on the patio in the back garden. The walls surrounding it were high, there was enough vegetation to shield her from prying eyes, and an indigo tinge had already started seeping into the shadows that crowded its narrow confines. As she toyed with her soup, another shadow, this one a solid pitch against the illusive softness of _l’heure bleue,_ swooped over the garden and dropped a small packet on the table.

 

A letter? _Surely,_ she thought, _there must be some mistake._

 

Having received no mail for almost a week, she’d resigned herself to the simple fact that no owl could find her in a place where technically, she’d never existed. Even magic had limits. For a long time, what seemed to pass like eons, she just sat, staring at the small, light rectangle on the glass table, its pallor the only light while all else around her darkened.

 

Finally, she conjured a tiny light from the tip of her wand and took the letter in hand, hoping for news from Harry or even Ron, although the latter was a long shot. They hadn’t spoken since their last days at Hogwarts. She turned it over to find she’d been wrong on both counts. Its seal was from Hogwarts.

 

While she stared at the letter, the owl made a sudden reappearance, settling uninvited in the metal chair opposite hers.

 

She waved her wand over the seal, commanding any charms contained in the missive to reveal themselves.

 

The owl cocked its head in the unsettling manner common to _strigiformes_ and regarded her with its copper bright eyes. Then it ruffled its feathers and squawked.

 

“Oh, be patient, would you?” she said.

 

A scent, exotic and heady as incense, wafted out as she opened the letter. She recognized its author immediately. The embossed letterhead, thick parchment, and delicate quillwork were unmistakable in their distinction. Settling back, she read it aloud:

 

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I need to speak with you regarding a matter of some urgency, the details of which I am uncomfortable describing in this letter, should it be intercepted. Please come to Hogwarts immediately and do not risk being seen._ _I have recast the jinx, so Apparation is no longer possible on school grounds._

"Believe me, that will not be a problem. Gods, if she only knew," Hermione said, looking up at her odd dinner companion. When the owl did nothing but glare, she continued reading:

_I value your_ _ complete discretion _ _in this matter._

_Sincerely,_

_Prof. Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

The owl squawked again. "No return reply's been requested and I've nothing to give you but oyster crackers." She waved the letter at it. "Off with you!"

The owl snapped at her and then, wheeled around the garden. By the time it vanished into the night sky, she was already halfway through the kitchen, summoning her backpack from the hall closet.

 

 


	8. Beyond the Gloaming

 

 

# Beyond the Gloaming

An "immediate" trip to Hogwarts proved more problematic than Hermione had anticipated. She wouldn't risk another botched apparation; the Floo Network, commandeered for emergency medical transportation during the last siege, was still closed to all but the highest-ranking Ministry officials and their designees; and the Knight Bus, while still operational, was too risky. Harry wasn't the only one who'd suffered unwanted notoriety in the wake of Voldemort's defeat—Rita Skeeter'd made certain of that. Unfortunately, this left only one other option for travel, one she hated above all others.

When night fell, Hermione tucked her hair in a cap and donned a black hoodie. Leaving the house by the back, Nimbus in hand, she shouldered her pack, gripped the shaft of the broomstick tightly in her hands, closed her eyes, and said, "Up!"

At first, the broom zigged across the garden with her in tow, sweeping dew from the grass and upending garden chairs and potted plants. "Up! Up!" she shrilled, clinging desperately upright, one foot in the stirrup, one leg dangling. "Please, won't you just go up!"

The broom made another jittery circuit around the lawn again, forcing her to swallow a scream. Then, angling, it flew straight into the nearest treetop, disturbing a murder of crows. "Sorry," she said, disentangling herself from the twigs. Then, settling into a flying stance, head low, both feet securely in the stirrups, Hermione took a deep breath, and said, "Hogwarts."

Nothing happened.

"Come on, move." She tried nudging it forward with her hips. "Hogwarts,  _now_."

The broom refused to budge.

Sighing, she said, "I guess I should've just apparated."

If "please" had roused it from disuse's torpor, her threat of apparation lit a fire under its bristles. The broom rocketed into the sky, whisking her over rooftops and rivers, and turning London's lights to pinpricks.

By the time Hermione reached the castle, the moon had risen, stippling the courtyard with blue shadows. Water gurgled in the old fountain, splashing over shards of its broken bowl, and at the main entrance, a hunched sentinel stood with a lantern in one hand and a small club in the other. "Who's that there, eh? State your business."

She recognized the rough accent immediately. "It's Hermione, Mr. Filch," she said, stepping into the lamp's orange glow. "I'm here to see Professor McGonagall."

"Oh are you?" When he lifted the lamp for a better look, Hermione saw the bandages around his hands and a bulge beneath his ragged neckerchief. "Well, that's you, alright, but I'm afraid you can't see her. She's not here," he said.

Tearing off her cap, she spluttered, "Not here! What do you mean she's  _not here_?"

"She had to go. There were...circumstances."

Noticing the club still hadn't left his hand, Hermione shifted uneasily on the flagstones. "What kind of circumstances, Mr. Filch?"

"That's all I'm at liberty to say, Miss Granger."

"Then how do you explain this?" Hermione handed him the letter, if for nothing more than to make him set his club aside, which, much to her relief, he did. "It's an urgent summons from Professor McGonagall. It came by Special Delivery Owl earlier  _this_  evening."

"I can read it just fine, Miss," he said, a familiar edge creeping into his tone.

"Sorry. Do you know when she'll return?" When he shook his head, she knew her next question was a long shot, but persisted. "Do you know what she might have wanted?"

Filch scratched his head. "Just about everyone's cleared out. Except for the work crews during the day, it's been pretty quiet around here since _,_  since...well, you know." Turning, he scowled into the castle foyer's torch lit gloom. As he did, Hermione could see scaffolding by the main staircase's blasted balustrade. The smell of varnish wafted out. Staring into the darkness, he began nodding slowly, as if one of the shadows had just spoken to him.

"What is it, Mr. Filch? Is something wrong?" Her pack felt like a bag of boulders on her shoulder and her arms and thighs ached from gripping the broom so tightly. In her haste to leave, she'd also forgotten to finish her dinner, something her stomach wouldn't be letting her forget any time soon. When he didn't respond, she said, "Well, since she's not here, I guess I should head back to London. You'll tell her I came, won't you, Mr. Filch. Mr. Filch?"

Turning quickly, he said, "No, no, you can't go back now. It's too...dark." He looked up at the sky as if he'd never stars before. His bulging eyes flicked to one side, as if someone had just whispered a particularly juicy secret in his ear. Then, handing back the letter, he nodded and said, "She'd want you to stay here. Yes..." He nodded again, as if trying to convince himself. "She'd want you to wait 'til she gets back. Come on, then."

Motioning for her to follow, he led her inside the castle's damp, drop cloth shrouded interior and down a long corridor to a side staircase. Though portraits still hung on the walls, their human subjects were curiously absent. Empty chairs sat at empty tables; sheet music and instruments lay haphazard in abandoned drawing rooms; and in one pastoral scene, an army of ants busily carried off a vacated picnic. Also absent were Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron. Even Mrs. Norris, who usually stuck to her master like a furry second shadow, seemed to be off hiding or hunting elsewhere.  _It's like walking through a mausoleum_ , Hermione thought.

As they made their way down another set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the hollow dark, a small shape with wings the color of night followed their progress from inside the vacated wall portraits.

When they reached the landing, Hermione immediately recognized the pedestal that once boasted an enormous, emerald-filled hourglass. Now empty, it canted at an odd angle near the entryway to the private quarters for the head of that  _particular_  house. "Slytherin?" she said, "Why on earth are we here?"

"The student quarters are closed off for repairs, so you'll have to stay in Severus' old rooms," he wheezed. Passing the pedestal, they approached a replica of the Slytherin coat of arms. Carved from Bluestone in bas-relief and mounted inside a thick frame, a shadow seemed to hang over its former grandeur like a pall. "No one comes down here much but if you ask me, it's the best of the lot," he said, running his hand down one side of the frame. A moment later, Hermione heard a  _click_  and the sculpture swung open, revealing a small anteroom, at the end of which was a narrow, wooden door. "That is, if you don't mind sharing with a ghost." He chuckled at his own joke. Then, taking an iron key from his coat pocket, he inserted it into the door lock. "Ah, but after battling Voldemort and single-handedly battling a mountain troll--bet you thought I'd forgotten about that--I'd think a brave Gryffindor like yourself would make quick work of a ghost, eh?"

Was it just her imagination, or did this usually irascible busybody of a man just  _tease_  her? "You think Professor Snape is a ghost?"  _Perhaps he's been into the firewhiskey_ , she decided.

Favoring her with a crooked grin, the caretaker handed her the key and stepped through the arched threshold into Snape's room. A moment later, a small oil lamp flickered on. "There, that's better. Come on in, then."

More curious than fearful, Hermione followed him into a sitting room that seemed terribly cold. To her right, a wall of books stretched from dusty floor to cobwebbed ceiling; to her left, a ratty couch and two equally shabby, padded chairs, all upholstered in what once might have been signature Slytherin green, faced the gaping maw of a large stone fireplace, over which, a portrait of the late Professor Snape presided with characteristic disdain.

"That's odd,"  Hermione said. "Why isn't he with the other headmasters?"

"He's lucky he's here at all. Found him beside a pile of rubbish in the hall, I did. Can you imagine the indignity!" Filch raised the lamp to better illuminate the portrait, whose gilded frame was chipped and badly marred. His almost-reverent action and the lamp's outmost halo of pale gold did little to improve the portrait's subject, however. Snape stared derisively at them down his long, hooked nose. "When I tried to put him back with the others, Professor McGonagall said that  _she_  didn't want him in  _her_ new office," he said bitterly. "Said him looking over her shoulder all the time gave her the chills. So, I brought him here." He nodded at Severus. "This was his home most of his life. This is where he belongs."

Professor McGonagall had a point. Even in the gloom, she could feel those beetle black eyes of his boring into her, following her every move. Hermione shivered.

"Bedroom and bathroom are in there." He gestured arthritically to the door on the far wall. "Furniture's serviceable." He pounded the back of the couch with his bandaged palm, raising a thick cloud of dust and with it, a faint smell of something else, something spicy, musky, and strangely familiar. "There's a little workroom behind you, just there, not that you'll need it." As Filch gestured with the lamp, the late professor's eyes seemed to flare angrily. "Nothing more than a storeroom really, but you'd be wise to—"

A sudden coughing fit interrupted him, pitching him forward and forcing him down on the sofa.

Hermione laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water, Mr. Filch?"

"S'th damn cold," he said between gasps. "Al'ays so cold..."

Hermione drew her wand from her sleeve and aimed it at the fireplace. Moments later, flames licked and crackled over its old logs. "There, that should take the chill off," she said, throwing herself into one of the padded chairs that flanked the sofa and sending up a dust storm as she landed. "Sorry."

"It's 'cause of his ghost or so  _she_ said. After he passed,  _she_  started seeing lights, hearing things." His last words drowned in something thick and wet inside his throat.

Hermione didn't have to ask who  _she_  was. "Professor Trelawney must miss him a great deal. I had no idea they were so close," she said, glancing at the portrait over the fireplace. For a moment, she could've sworn he'd shaken a disapproving finger at her but reason soon bested imagination:  _Of course, his portrait's charmed, just like the others._ This, however, birthed an unsettling realization: all charmed portraits could speak. If that were the case and if it were equally true that death had no appreciable effect on its victim's personality, she didn't relish the thought of spending five minutes alone with Snape, much less the night. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some water, Mr. Filch? It's so awfully dusty in here." Rising, she said, "You know, I wouldn't mind—"

"Sybill saw him." He said hoarsely, cutting her off. "And not long after's when it happened. A right sorry mess it was, too."

Hermione scooted to the edge of her seat. "What happened?"

"I suspect it's why the Headmistress called you back, for all the good it'll do," Filch said, staring up at the portrait. "Sybill's gone now."

"Gone?" Hermione's blood went colder than the air in the room. "You mean Professor Trelawney is dead?"

"Dead? Are you daft?" He stuffed a pillow behind his back. "After his funeral, she swore up and down that Severus wasn't dead and she was going to find him. That's when she started seeing him—even said he flew past her window one night. That was the problem." He shook his finger at her. "It was always at night and when she was alone, which the poor thing was, most of the time. Of course, this didn't help her any," he said, taking a swig from an imaginary bottle. Then, leaning in to Hermione, he whispered conspiratorially, "Nor this: you know, she always was sweet on him."

Another coughing fit seized him, which gave Hermione plenty of time to picture the Divination instructor and sarcastic Potions professor locked in a passionate snogging session:

( _Oh, Sybill! The moonlight reflecting off your monstrous lenses is as blinding as your beauty!)_

_(Oh, Severus! Is it true what they say about men with freakishly long noses?)_

_(Oooh, Syb!)_

_(Oooh, Sev!)_

Oh, gross!Even with both hands clapped over her mouth, Hermione couldn't suppress the flood of giggles, and was relieved when the portrait over the mantle remained remarkably impassive throughout her outburst.

"I'll grant you, she had more than a few loose screws  _before,_  what with her predicting this one's death and that, but  _his_  completely unhinged that poor girl. Wasn't long before she tried to fly after him and would've, too if I hadn't been there to stop her! Professor McGonagall packed her off to the old bughouse straight away. As far as I know, she's there still."

No longer laughing, Hermione said, "I'm sorry. That was horrid of me, Mr. Filch. I had no idea."

Waving his hand dismissively, Filch rose. "There's a great deal you don't know. Well, I've got to go lock up now." His joints popped as he shuffled to the door. "After you get settled, there're some sandwiches in the kitchen if you're hungry."

Did wonders never cease? "Thank you, Mr. Filch."

"Oh, and Miss Granger," paused in the door, his face to the silent hall, Filch said, "I wouldn't take any midnight strolls, if I were you. Mark my words: there are still some things even you wouldn't want to tangle with on a moonlit night."

"What kind of  _things_?"

"Well, wouldn't want to be givin' you nightmares, now, would I?" With that, he shut the door behind him, leaving Hermione alone in her late professor's apartment.

 

 


	9. Patronum Draconis

All things Potter remain the province of J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing her characters and contorting her canon for a lark of my own devising, along with partial lyrics to “She’s Come Undone” by the Guess Who, which appear just before things get steamy. 

 

Enjoy!

 

# Patronum Draconis

**Part I**

"I know what I saw! Why won't you believe me?" Sybill struggled with the attendants. One held her arms, while the other, brandishing a wand with a lavender glow at its tip, jockeyed for an ideal position. "He's alive, Minerva! He spoke to me! Just ask Mr. Filch, he saw Sev—Get that thing away from me!" Wrenching herself free, she knocked the wand from the second attendant's hand and flung herself at McGonagall's feet. Fisting hanks of the elder witch's long skirts, she buried her face in them, saying, "Please don't leave me here! I'm not crazy! Just ask Mr. Filch! Please, please!"

The attendants started for her again but one look from Minerva stayed them. "I did ask him, dear," she said. Kneeling, she embraced her sobbing colleague. "He found you standing at the edge of the Astronomy Tower. If he hadn't stopped you..."

"He lied!" Sybill's head snapped up. "I never went outside. I never left the room!"

"I'm sorry, dear, but I can't let you return to Hogwarts." Wan light gleamed in the Floo behind her. "It's for your own safety."

"Please! If word gets out, I'll be sacked," Sybill said, tears fogging her glasses and trickling down her cheeks. "I have nowhere else to go!"

"Shh..." Tightening her embrace, Minerva rocked her and smoothed her hair. "You will always have a home at Hogwarts."

"Just what. Albus. Said," Sybill said, hiccuping. "If he were. Here..."

"He'd say there's no shame in asking for help when you need it."

"I don't need help! Severus came to me! He spoke to me! Your words are as hollow as his grave!" Pushing her away, Sybill traced a figure-eight in the air. "Let me lead you...lead you on...on..." As she began to sway, her voice became double-throated, deep and alien, an amphibian cry across an uncaring universal sea. "I will show you the way...a path without end, without beginning..."

"No, not again!" McGonagall shook her. "Stop this at once! Come back to me!" The glow in the Floo flared gold.

Sybill's eyes rolled back and her head bobbled like a rag doll. "The dust will siiiing...the moon will weeeep...He is not there...Heee does not sleeeeep...Paatronumdraaaaconis... paatronumm....draaaaconis...paaatronnnummmm..."

Ashen-faced, McGonagall signaled to the Attendants. "Please! She's having a fit!"

Hurrying to her side, one placed the tip of his wand on Sybill's shoulder. Violet, deeper than twilight, spread outward, blanketing her in a soft glow. Her paroxysms ceased and she slumped on the floor.

Stretching his hand over her, the other whispered,  _"Surgere sine noxa."_  Sybill's unconscious body rose slowly into the air. "There, she'll sleep now," he said, gently tucking a blanket in around her.

The first attendant patted McGonagall's arm. "Don't you worry, Professor, she's in real good hands. Madame Lavatska's the best," he said.

"Yes, thank you. I'll visit soon, dear, I promise," Minerva said, watching as the attendants bore her away down the long hall. The walls of the unit, charmed to reflect the color an individual found most soothing, appeared a matte grey-green to her, an effect made all the more depressing given the tiny, orange flames that flickered in sconces set in recesses along the hall's length. "Forgive me, Sybill, but you gave me no choice," she whispered. As she did out of habit, one hand flew to the brooch at her neck and toyed nervously with its round, gold edges.

"There is always a choice." Madame Olga Lavatska, Senior Healer in St. Mungo's behavioral wing, ghosted out of a nearby archway. "I know that face, Minerva," she said in her thick accent. "Why do you make the face?"

"Oh, Olga, the signs were there all along; why didn't I recognize them sooner?" Turning to the Healer, she whispered, "Even the House Elves said her garbage clinked."

"A lonely woman beset by spirits?" She gave Minerva a hug. "Save that story for those who haven't known you half a lifetime."

"I'm so glad to see you, Olga," she said. "Lately, Hogwarts has been so...There are so many things I've wanted to..."

"I know. I can hear the storm behind your eyes," Madame Lavatska said, fixing her with a bird bright gaze, one made all the more owlish by pale, golden eyes set above a hooked nose and framed in wisps of white hair. "But to be a seer is to be lonely; we both know this. Sorrow is ever Sight's gift. That I can help her manage," she said, shrugging. "What concerns me more is that our exchange is not confidential."

"What?"

"It followed you here." Olga pointed to the pale globe hovering inside the Medi-Floo.

"A Prying Sphere? They've been outlawed since the First Wizarding War!" Fists clenched, Minerva rounded on it. "I demand you reveal yourself at once!"

The ball's aura pulsed. Sparks popped and sputtered beneath its glassy surface. Then, a familiar voice said: "The Minister for Magic summons you to an emergency meeting in his—"

"Arthur Weasley," she spat. "How dare you!"

"It's for your own protection, Minerva," he said. "Please, just come."

"Go on," Olga said, "We'll talk later."

Minerva squeezed her arm. "Take care of her." Then, taking a handful of powder from a dish on the mantle, she threw it into the maw and marched into the flames.

Kingsley met her at the hearth inside his office. "Before you say anything, Minerva, I can explain." Taking her by the arm, he steered her toward a mahogany conference table, where a very sheepish-looking Arthur Weasley sat waiting. Beside him was a roll of newsprint.

"I see your newfound power has had quite a corrupting influence," Minerva said, striding over to him. "How long have you been following me?"

"I'm sorry but I had to," he said. "There's been an incident—well, another incident." He rose and pulled the chair out for her. "I know you're angry but please, just sit."

Azure robes swished as Kingsley paced at the head of the table. "I don't know how much longer we can keep it out of the papers, now that Skeeter's gotten wind of it."

"What's happened?" asked Minerva.

Kingsley stopped pacing. "The Malfoys are dead."

"Not dead, murdered! Murdered in cold blood!" Arthur thumped the table with his fist. "One of the servants found them."

"A brutal attack, ghastly business: Narcissa's throat torn open and Malfoy's heart... missing," Kingsley said.

"Missing?" Professor McGonagall pulled a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her lips. "And what of Draco?"

"We think he's on holiday with the Parkinson family at Devil's Reef but the resort is so  _exclusive_ , getting past international security's been a nightmare."

"Poor boy." So many people hated the Malfoys now. There were those who thought the Ministry had been much too lenient with them; others, a handful of would-be vigilantes, had circulated rumors of a reward for Lucius Malfoy's death in the weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts. While these low wizards would  _talk_  about doing anything for a price, she didn't believe any of them would actually perpetrate such a vicious attack. "Do you have any suspects?"

After the men exchanged nervous glances, Arthur said, "Yes, we think—well, that is, we have a theory..."

"We're  _still_  not ruling out Fenrir Greyback as the culprit." Before Weasley could interject, Kingsley said, "We know he was seriously  _injured_  during the Battle of Hogwarts but there was no  _evidence_ of his actual death. Given his degree of involvement with the Death Eaters, he certainly had motive, and the brutality of the crime fits."

McGonagall nodded.

"At first, I thought so too, but this morning, I found this," Arthur said, opening his copy of  _The Whinging Wire_.

 _Little Whinging_... Minerva's stomach knotted as she scanned an article written by Ruby Preacher, Special  _Wire_  Correspondent:

**GRISLY MURDER SHOCKS SMALL COMMUNITY**

SURREY—Responding to an emergency call from Number Four Privet Drive late last night, Paramedics discovered the body of Petunia Dursley...

McGonagall's eyes widened. "Petunia dead? Oh, this is just dreadful!" Dropping the paper, she reached for Kingsley's arm. "Does Harry know?"

"Not yet."

"She was a terrible foster mother to him but she  _was_  his  _last_  living  _blood_  relative!" She daubed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Do you think Greyback is connected to all three deaths?"

" _I_  think that's a distinct possibility," Kingsley said.

"The real proof is right here, Minerva." Arthur tap-tapped the paper. "Keep reading. Unlike some people, I'm sure  _you'll_ see reason."

Minerva adjusted her spectacles and read: "Resuscitation attempts proved unsuccessful, as the victim had sustained severe trauma to the neckregion."

"Aha! There, you see!" 

Swatting Arthur with his cap, Kingsley said, "For the love of Merlin, let her finish!"

"Her wounds are like Narcissa's. Yes, Arthur, I see that." Pursing her lips, she regarded him narrowly over the top of the page before resuming her place. "Neither of the victim's family members—husband Vernon and son, Dudley 'Big D' Dursley, who has a history of ties to local gang activity—was home at the time of the incident." Expecting another outburst, she looked up, but he only motioned for her to continue. "Pending further investigation, police have ruled her death suspicious. I should say so!"

Folding the paper neatly, she handed it back to Weasley. "Thank you, Arthur. I think I understand now."

Beaming, he said, "I knew you would."

"It's definitely the work of a rogue werewolf."

Arthur clapped his head in his hands and groaned.

"One with a known grudge against Harry Potter and the Malfoys," Kingsley added.

"I trust the Ministry has taken steps to prevent Greyback's further intrusion into Muggle territory. I wouldn't put it past him, trying to recruit more Snatchers," she said. "A were-infestation in the Muggle world would be disastrous."

"Are you both blind?"

"Please forgive Arthur's outburst, Minerva. He's drawn some rather  _interesting_ conclusions of his own."

"Mock me all you want but a werewolf isn't the only creature that inflicts neck trauma," Weasley said.

"You mean, a vampire?" Minerva fought to stifle a laugh. "Surely, you can't be serious! While relations between Wizards and  _Sanguinem_  have always been guarded, they've still been reasonably amicable for centuries! What in Merlin's name leads you to believe that one of them would attack a defenseless Muggle?"

"I've seen her body."

"Arthur, you didn't tell me about  _this_ ," the Minister spluttered. "When did you—oh, never mind when—how?"

"Thanks to Charity Burbage, I have a few connections in the Muggle world," he said. "One of whom works as one of those, those whatchamacallits—it's like a Healer on Wheels," he said, drawing invisible circles within confused circles in the air. "He's the one who took me to a place called the 'Mordchoowary'. Fascinating place, like a wandmaker's chest, only with bigger drawers and freezing cold, of course. It's where Muggles keep their dead."

Minerva made a face.

"If the poor woman's body is evidence in a murder investigation, I'm surprised they let just anyone in the Moreshoe—whatever it's called," Kingsley said. "Tell me, Arthur, do I  _want_  to know how you managed to do this without getting caught?"

Weasley grinned. "For some reason, the Head Healer was under the impression that I was Chancey Cleaver, the famed Muggle mystery author. He's a big fan of Cleaver's work."

"You  _Confunded_  a Muggle." Kingsley shook his head.

"And set a Prying Sphere on me; let's not forget that. Shame on you!"

"Petunia Dursley had just two wounds on her neck—puncture wounds—and not a drop of blood on her. She'd been bled whiter than a winter hare." Folding his arms, he said, "We're dealing with a vampire. Care to guess who he is, Professor?" McGonagall sat tensely, fists clenched in her lap. Arthur leaned back in his chair. "Severus Snape!"

"It's preposterous,! It's absolutely scandalous," Minerva spat. "Severus Snape was a hero: a freedom fighter for the Wizarding world! He died championing the just cause and I will not tolerate such contemptuous treatment of his memory." She slammed her fist so hard against the tabletop that both men jumped. "Nor will I abide the concomitant and malicious maligning of Harry Potter's character to which your so-called 'conclusion' alludes." All color had drained from her thin face, except for the red splotches on her cheeks. Rising, she aimed a gnarled finger at the now-goggle eyed Weasley, and said, "Harry was  _with_  him. He  _watched_  Severus die! That is a fact. You know it as well as I or perhaps your half-baked hypothesis presumes Harry Potter is a liar now, too. Severus Snape a vampire? Nonsense!" Visibly shaken, exhausted, Minerva sank into her seat. "You should be ashamed of yourself." Eyes brimming, she turned away.

No one moved. No one spoke. As the mantle clock chimed the hour, an uncomfortable silence stretched in the space between each musical tone.

No one spoke. Nothing is more terrifying, more formidable in its power to command memory and reality, grief and joy, accusation and absolution than the female lacrimal gland. Kingsley, who still lived with his mother, knew this, as did Weasley, who'd felt the weight of water so many times, he would've gladly wrestled a horde of Acromantula with one hand tied behind his back to avoid his present predicament. Both men glanced from each other to McGonagall's heaving back, and back at each other again. Kingsley had absolutely no experience consoling crying women and Arthur lived with one who made him do all the crying. As each stared helplessly at the other, the look on both their faces was unmistakable:  _Now what?_

Kingsley folded his arms and shot Arthur a  _Well I hope you're happy,_  moue.

Countering, Weasley opted for his time-tested, best-wide-eyed,  _How was I to know?_ stance.

As befitting his position, Kingsley shrugged this off, favoring his opponent with an arch-browed,  _I think you owe her an apology_  sidelong glance with accompanying head toss.

 _ME?_  he mouthed.

 _Yes, YOU!_  Kingsley mimicked, jabbing the air between them with his index finger. His digital maneuver spoke volumes:  _If you'd kept your gob shut about Severus and vampires, we wouldn't be in this mess!_

"Then how do you explain the Patronus?" Weasley spluttered, finally breaking the silence. "Hermione and Harry both saw it, and moments ago, I heard Sybill say—"

Minerva blew her nose. Startled, the Minister assumed the posture of a soldier at attention, while Arthur unsuccessfully tried to blend into the back in his chair. "Kingsley," she said, turning to him, while gifting  _He-Who-Must-Be-Ignored_  with a close-up of her uplifted palm, "did Lucius and Narcissa sustain  _puncture_  wounds to  _their_  necks?" She said 'puncture' as if trying to spit out a mouthful of sour grape leaf tea. "Were their bodies, like Petunia's, as one in our company has so vividly described, bled whiter than a pair of winter hares?"

Kingsley tried to expel the immense, invisible cotton ball that had suddenly decided to lodge itself in his throat. "Uh, well, as a matter of fact...No."

"No?" Her word contained every ounce of winter in the world.

"While the amount of blood lost was significant, it was quite  _visible_ , I assure you."

"Indeed. Knowing that a werewolf also possesses fangs, can you honestly sit there and tell me that this is the work of a vampire?"

Kingsley shot him one last, triumphant,  _I told you so_  glance.

"But Hermione said," he stammered.

"In case you've forgotten, Arthur, I was there, too." The stop sign hand waved with a flourish before delicately joining its mate on the varnished tabletop. Regarding Weasley imperiously down her long nose, she said, "All evidence thus far indicates a werewolf committed these crimes. Do the Aurors know Greyback's current whereabouts, Kingsley?"

"There've been a number of sightings in Knockturn Alley, but nothing definite."

"It's  _not_  Greyback," Weasley muttered. "There were wizards who swore that Snape was— _is_ —a vampire."

Addressing him as if he were a very small child, one who'd just uttered the Muggle equivalent of 'bugger,' McGonagall said, "Those were nothing more than cruel rumors, made by children about a child, a fellow student who was malnourished, unusually intense, and who also suffered from a rare form of anemia. Yes,  _anemia,_  Arthur. Ask Poppy, if you don't believe me. James and Sirius were nice boys, but where Severus was concerned, their teasing went too far."

"Then how would you explain his extraordinary talent at Legilimency," Arthur pressed. "How do you explain what you all saw at his tomb?"

"If you'd done your homework, Arthur, you would know that the vampire is a metamorphmagus, a being capable of transforming itself into multiple creatures, as well as environmental phenomena, such as mist and fog. As a student, Severus never displayed the slightest aptitude for Transfiguration. How do  _you_  explain that--or this: if he was a vampire, why then, in all his time at Hogwarts, was he never afflicted with bloodlust? To my knowledge, Severus Snape never  _bit_  a single soul!"

"He could've easily brewed a potion."

"When he was just a  _boy_? Rubbish," she huffed.

"Maybe he and Greyback are working together."

"Your lack of knowledge about the subject you're so vengefully pursuing is simply astonishing, Arthur," Minerva said primly. "Vampires and werewolves are mortal enemies. I'll leave it to you and your legendary investigative prowess to discover why."

Knowing the ice between them was already thin as rime on an October puddle, Arthur said, "How do you explain Professor Trelawney's latest prophecy?"

"Sybill has always been a very fragile soul. The stress of recent events has driven her past her breaking point, which is why she's at St. Mungo's." The elderly witch shook her head sadly. "I fear that she will not be recovered in time to start the new school year. You seem to be terribly fond of predictions, Arthur. Perhaps you'd like to teach Rudimentary Divination in her absence?"

The barb hit its mark. His ears turned the same shade as his hair and his face flushed livid purple. He'd been hoping she'd offer him a spot as a guest lecturer in Muggle Studies. Now, with all bets for that off, before he could stop himself, he hissed, "Perhaps I will, Minerva. It'd give me the perfect opportunity to rout Snape from his coffin."

"That is a base accusation. Should anyone care to apologize, I'll be staying at the Leaky Cauldron until the morrow. Know that  _you_  may expect my full cooperation in your pursuit of Fenrir Greyback, Minister. Good night." Nodding curtly to him, she strode regally out the door, black silk skirt hissing in her wake.

After she'd gone, Shacklebolt drew a deep breath and said, " _That_  certainly went well, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." Arthur ran a hand through his hair.

"You don't have to apologize to me."

"I'll send Aurors to search for Greyback but with your permission, Kingsley, I'd like to conduct a private investigation of my own."

"Lack of permission's never stopped you before," he said, chuckling. "What's your next move?"

"As soon as she's well enough, I'd like to speak with Professor Trelawney."

 

**Part II.**

After having a bite in the castle's empty kitchen, Hermione brewed a cup of chamomile tea and returned to Slytherin. Fascinated by the filled-to-overflowing,  floor-to-ceiling bookcases  in Snape's apartment, she couldn't wait to explore such a wondrous collection. The fire crackling in the grate had chased away the chill, although its inviting glow did little to relieve the chamber of its starkness. Its other walls, blocks of stone, were bare and bleached as bones. As she set her mug on the coffee table, Filch's words came back to her:  _This was his home._  Home? It was more like a tomb. She looked at the portrait. 

A very watchful tomb, although, to her amazement, the former Headmaster still hadn't moved from his frame. His pupils, nearly as dark as the irises surrounding them in what was undoubtedly his most striking feature, while still observant, had lost much of their unnerving, Here's-the-void-staring-back-at-you intensity. Even his stern countenance seemed to have softened, losing some its characteristic angularity in her absence.

 _Oh, don't be such a goose,_ she thought, _It's merely a trick of firelight._

Still, the more she gazed at the painting, the more drawn to its subject she became. How the painter's hand had managed to reveal some secret part of Snape's soul with nothing more than brushstrokes of oil across canvas was irrefutable proof that the portrait's creator had been nothing short of a master. A glossy curtain of onyx hair framed a complexion as luminous as the moon. While his nose was just as she remembered, a beak befitting a bird of prey, the mouth beneath it was strong and finely shaped, and the deep richness of his lips startling in their sensuousness, as were the hands clasped at his waist: long, tapered fingers with nearly translucent nails; large but delicate, they seemed less the hands of a potions master and more those of an artist, musician, or a lover.

_A lover?_

A startling thought, enough to send a flush over her cheeks. Nor could she stop herself from suddenly imagining what it might be like to run her fingers through that silky hair, to feel those lips pressing against hers, tasting that kiss, losing herself inside it. That kiss, those hands—his hands—would they be forceful or gentle, trembling or practiced as they gathered her into an embrace? And if he wanted more, could she... _Would_  she?

A flush of unexpected heat surged through her body. Gasping, she turned away.  _What am I thinking! He's twice my age and my professor—okay,_  former _professor who just happens to be dead—he's dead—_ dead _for Merlin's sake!_ "Besides, it's just a painting, charmed like every single other one in this castle. He must've wanted it to have this effect, to reveal an aspect of his psyche or character that went overlooked in life."  

The thought was like a bucket of cold water. Aside from a brief crush in her fifth year, no one had ever seen him in that light: not a single, other student, any of his colleagues— _and certainly not Perfect Lily Potter, for whom he'd carried a torch his entire life,_  she thought grimly. Who could blame him for changing his Patronus? No, there'd been no one, unless she believed Filch's outrageous story about that simpering sot, Trelawney (which she did not). While a man certainly had  _needs_ —she'd heard  _that_  declaration enough from Ron on numerous, unsuccessful occasions—Snape would've had principles, taste, or at very least, a functioning eye-to-brain connection! _"_ Who were you, Severus Snape," she said, her voice ringing through the still room.

Only two things in her immediate vicinity offered any clues: his workroom and private library. Except for these, Snape's former quarters would've resembled just another of the castle's many cold and anonymous chambers; although, even with its extreme minimalist décor, the room still managed to manifest a sentient aura, an expectant emptiness: a pocket of potential energy waiting for light and life to fill it, spur it into being.

Hermione tried the door to the workroom first. Though it boasted no lock, the privacy charm cast over it wouldn't give an inch.  _Even here, you were never completely safe. Even here, you could never truly be yourself,_ she thought.

Sighing, she focused her attention to the bookshelves, which unsurprisingly, boasted the most extensive (if not disturbing) collection of Dark Arts references she'd ever seen. Many of the volumes were leather bound with cracked covers, deckled pages, and written in what looked like Numinous Arabic. Two of the larger ones, ancient hair-covered things the size of footstools, bore strange runic inscriptions. When opened, each exhaled a cloud of mildew that made her choke. Between them, tucked among cobwebs and darkness, was a small notebook, whose leather clasp screamed Journal. Insatiable for a glimpse into Snape's thoughts, Hermione pulled it out.

The moment her fingers touched its clasp, tongues of foxfire sprang up around her hand and book pulsed with sudden current, sending painful shockwaves up her arms. Shrieking, Hermione dropped the book. It skidded across the floor and rebounded off the far wall. Unhooking its clasp, the book bared its barbed metal fangs and lunged at her, brittle pages hissing. Screaming, Hermione dove behind the couch. Satisfied, the book snapped its jaws shut and slowly levitated back to its hidey-hole.

Her hand felt wet. Looking down, Hermione discovered the clasp had scored a deep cut across her wrist. Blood dribbled from the wound, speckling her wand and spattering the floor. Wincing, she summoned dittany and bandages from her bag, and then headed for the washroom. As luck would have it, it was located just off the bedroom, the only other room she hadn't yet explored.  _Please, Merlin, no more surprises tonight,_ she pleaded silently.  _No guard rugs or watch pillows!_

Apparently, Merlin had other ideas. Wan light flashed and thunder rumbled behind the bedroom door, which chose that exact moment to open with a slow-motion creak. In the impenetrable blackness beyond its gaping maw, something  _thud-thud-thudded._ Hermione's hand—her good hand—tightened around her wand. Another flash illuminated an oblong, an object she hoped was the end of a bed.  _A nice, safe, boring bed, yes, please!_ When the thunder came, her hand throbbed in time with its rumble. Wand ready, she waited.

 _There's nothing there,_ Rational Hermione's voice, now tinged with exasperation, boomed in her head. _The floor's uneven; the vibration opened the door. It used to happen all the time in Gryffindor!_

Suggestible Hermione wasn't so easily convinced.  _Okay, smarty-pants, then what's banging about in there? Filch said this room was haunted—Eee!_ Another blue-white flash and clap of thunder made her jump.

 _'Filch said! Filch said!' Get a grip!_   _There is another possibility._

"Right," she said, effectively merging her warring inner selves. It would be just like him to pull a stunt like this, too. "Peeves, I am not amused." Wand high, Hermione charged at the door. "Leave this room at once!" The wind moaned and she heard another  _thud_ , but when she tried to cross the threshold, the door slammed in her face, knocking her off balance.

Snape watched her with interest from his perch above the mantle.

Hermione tottered backwards, catching her leg on one of the sofa arms. Arms wheeling, she toppled over it, barking her injured hand on the corner of the coffee table as she fell. Fresh pain raced up her arm. "Damn you, Peeves," she hollered from her splay-legged landing spot on the hardwood floor.

Behind the door, a single muffled  _thud!_ replied.

Aching and angry, humiliated but no longer afraid, Hermione aimed her wand and screamed,  _"Alohomora!"_

The door ppened, revealing darkness and nothing more.

Severus licked his lips.

 _"Lumos."_ As she barged inside, eager to confront Peeves, a blast of rain hit her in the face. At the end of the room, an open window banged against its casement. Crossing to it, she closed it with an exasperated bang. Then, leaning against the sill, she closed her eyes and groaned, letting the rain beat an angry tattoo upon the mullioned windowpane.

When her heart finally stopped hammering in her ears, Hermione opened her eyes. The bedroom, much like the sitting room, reminded her of monks' quarters in a monastery she'd once visited. Spartan, utilitarian, and sexless, it was more of a holding cell for someone whose life lay outside the realm of physical and material pursuits. Its furnishings consisted of a bed, wardrobe, and battered steamer trunk. The bed, a standard-Hogwarts-issue four-poster, lacked chill chasing drapery of any kind. Its duvet, though substantial, was shabby and suspiciously dimpled, as if its owner had taken up sleeping atop his covers. A thick candle stub mounted in a curved glass container stood on the bedside table. Once lit, it cast a cheerless, sallow circle on the ceiling. The wardrobe, while identical to those in the dormitories, lacked that version's patina of vintage graffiti.

Hermione opened it, releasing a cloud of homemade sachet that reminded her of incense. A nightshirt, coat, and pair of torn pants hung limply on its hooks, waiting for an owner who'd never return. The thought stung her eyes; she closed the door. The trunk lid, much like the workroom door, wouldn't budge.

The door to the tiny washroom was opposite the trunk. Hermione slipped inside to clean and bandage her hand. As she returned to the room, she noticed a small scarf wadded at the foot of the bed. It, along with a small radio, was the sole glimmer of personality in an otherwise impersonal room. Though faded, threads of gypsy red, orange, maroon and gold glimmered in its complex, lacy pattern. Handmade, too; she recognized the treble clusters and picots. Crochet. Her mother tried to teach her one summer but in the end, only Crookshanks loved the result. Imagining Professor Snape with a hook in one hand and a hank of yarn in the other made her giggle.

She picked it up, intending to fold it, but then saw a bulge beneath the coverlet. Pulling it back, Hermione discovered an empty wine bottle.

The radio sputtered to life:  
  
_She found a mountain that was far too high_  
And when she found out she couldn't fly  
Mama, it was too late!

The scarf—Sybill's scarf—slipped from her fingers.

 _It's too late_  
She's gone too far  
She's lost the sun

As the music played on, a hollow lightness, blossomed within her. A burgeoning night, whose glittering canopy of stars buzzed as their multitude erupted from a limitless, revolving dark.

_She's come undone—_

_No, no-no-no-no-no, no  
Un-doe, doe, doe-doe_

Moaning, Hermione staggered from the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She stood outside it a long time, listening, wand at the ready, but heard only the storm raging beyond the next room. As much as she hated to admit it, Mr. Filch had been right on two counts: Trelawney's delusional excursions and the room's otherworldly occupant. She only hoped that Peeves had had enough fun for one night.

Exhausted and tearful, she curled into a ball on the couch. Her tea had gone cold, but she couldn't summon the urge to reheat it. Her arm felt so heavy she doubted she could even reach for the mug if she'd wanted to. She stared into the fire, hoping to cast the evening's unpleasantness from her mind. She did not know how long she lay gazing at the flames, or the moment she became mesmerized by their soft crackling, their gentle sibilance a soothing mantra:  _Sleep...sleep..sleep..._ The fire's glow cast its comforting warmth over her like a blanket and soon, she succumbed to welcome slumber.

Time passed, creeping like a mouse around a watchful cat. As the flames receded, a shadow wafted like smoke from the portrait's frame. It lingered beside Hermione, stroking her cheek, tantalized by the auburn glints in her hair, the rosy fullness of her parted lips, and the drying garnet at her wrist. The shadow found all reds irresistible.

Deep in the starless dreamlands, Hermione rode the last echoes of the thunder to an unknown shore whose warm, soft sands seemed familiar to her as a featherbed. There she lay, while the stygian waves rose and fell, waiting, waiting, waiting until waiting poured like water into wanting, and wanting flowed into needing... Soundlessly, her secret heart cried across the dreaming's uncharted distances, calling out to the Unnamed, willing him into being, summoning her unknown lover with a child's conceit.

Darkness  _came_. Invisible hands smoothed the hair from her face and soft lips trembled against hers with their first kiss. Blind, she reached for him, knowing just where he would be; she always did. Believing he was her conjuration of innocence, longing, mystery and sin—not one who came of his own accord—she drew him in, savoring his mouth's spice and mineral-salted heat, a promise released with each fervent kiss. Probing, searching, long, and deep, he kindled unimaginable fires within her, every crush of his lips cascading like molten streams across the curve of her jaw and down her throat, pooling at the delicate spot on her neck where her life thrummed like a second heartbeat. 

There, he hesitated, his tongue drawing slow circles over her quickening pulse. His hands smoothed down her shoulders and over the swell of her small, firm breasts, where cunning fingertips teased her nipples, pebbling them with desire.

New pleasures rippled through her, begging her to round a previously forbidden curve to the fantastic territory that lay beyond. Placing her hands over his, guiding him, she murmured her assent. Clothes dissolved like her inhibitions. Caressing and nipping, seeking out passion's every hidden pore, hands and lips and teeth blazed new trails across her breasts. 

His tongue drew languid runes down the plane of her abdomen, while one hand dipped between her thighs, circling and rubbing the buried rosebud within. His questing tongue soon joined them, diving inside her and driving her past the precipice of all discretion. Fisting his long hair, desperately holding him inside her trembling folds as she ground against him, knees to the wind, Hermione let his fervent ministrations propel her to a place where madness howled, delicious and indiscreet. Panting, she released him, only to feel his mouth crush against hers again and taste herself, thick and salty-sweet inside his kisses.

He shifted. Arms she could not see moved against her. Her legs rose, bent back upon her, pinning her; and between her legs, at the entrance his sweet mouth had just left hot and slick, she now felt a dull pressure, followed by a sudden, pleasant pain. She gasped as his longing stretched her until she thought her hips would break and then, filled her with its throbbing length.

Slowly, at first, he receded, pulling himself, inch by inch away, outside her, and leaving another unfulfilled hunger, raw and aching, in that empty place. Slowly he returned, rising inside her like the sea in a cavern, only to retreat again, no matter how hard she tried to hold him in. 

Groping frantically, begging him for release in the pitch-black depths of what she still believed was a dream, Hermione squirmed beneath him. Gradually, his strokes acquired strength and speed. Panting huskily, his thick shaft drove harder and deeper into her clenching, velvet heat. Bathed in sweat, she arched into him, digging her fingers into his hips and screaming until liquid heat erupted and breakers of dark bliss eclipsed her.

The last thing she remembered was a sudden sting and a tug at her wrist.

 


	10. The Little Friends

Harry Potter: I don’t own it, don’t profit from it, but still manage to have a darned good time playing with it!

# The Little Friends

**Part I**

They wouldn't wake up! Why wouldn't they wake up? They'd been struggling with the immensity of their burden, counting each second with silent regrets, the enormity of her absence tangible as scent. She couldn't bear it. She'd flown into their arms, covering them in kisses.  _Home, Mummy's home!_  They'd been so surprised to see her: their eyes just about popped out of their heads. Hadn't she laid their fears to rest? Only moments ago, they couldn't stop screaming for joy; now, they wouldn't budge. "Vernon dear? Dudders?" Vernon lay splay-legged on the couch, staring glassily at the ceiling, his mouth frozen in silent awe. Neck twisted at an odd angle, her son slumped in a nearby armchair.

After everything she'd been through for them, to get back to them! It made her head ache just to think about it, especially the part about how she got into such straits in the first place. There'd been a horrid little room and in it, a horrid little man whose head looked like an onion. There'd also been a younger man who smelled like kippers. The young one dumped her on a bare table, exposing her in a most indecent manner and then, spraying her with a hose. A hose! As if that weren't enough, Onion Head cut her from stem to sternum and put her most precious parts in pickle jars.

When they'd finally finished mucking about her insides, Fish Breath sewed up her big slit with an upholstery needle and black twine. "The least they could've done was use pink," she said, running a finger down one branch of the Y incision. Once she'd ripped out that nasty, black twine, it'd practically healed itself!

Fish Breath had poked about her naughty bits and made tasteless remarks. She hadn't liked  _that_  one little bit. She told him so, too—sat right up and took him to task. Oh, the look he gave her then! He wouldn't be pulling that stunt any time soon.

That's when the whispering started. First came the whispering and then, the hunger.

She sucked the blood from her fingers and then, from a splotch on her coat. No, not hers...So fierce in her intention to return home, she'd arrived without a wearing a stitch. She looked at the man on the couch and the boy in the chair. Perhaps it belonged to one of them.

Her teeth hurt. She ran her tongue over them, paying particular attention to the two that felt peculiarly overlong, awakening as she did, the voice she'd heard before: her Inner Whisperer. Closing her eyes, Petunia listened to its soft and soothing cadence. Oh, it was so nice to have this constant companion, this little friend, despite its single-mindedness of intention. Truly, it only ever said one thing, a word repeated like a fervent mantra:  _Feed!_

 

**Part II.**

Not far from where Petunia wrestled with  her inner daemon, Sybill woke before daybreak, cotton-mouthed and muzzy-headed. She sat up and hugged her knees. As she did, enchanted wainscoting winked on, although its cheery orange did little to lift her spirits. It wasn't fair; she didn't belong here. She didn't understand why Mr. Filch lied to Minerva but the fact that she'd taken his word over hers was a betrayal she just couldn't countenance. She could taste it, thick and bitter at the back of her throat. She'd done exactly what she'd set out to do—find Severus—never imagining the reward for her initiative would be a lockup in the barred-window ward.

Was she locked in? She threw back the bedcovers. Someone had taken her clothes, replacing them with a light tunic and matching pajama pants, both sporting the St. Mungo's seal. A long robe lay draped across the foot of the bed. She sat up and slipped it on. On the floor, she found a pair of Chinese slippers that fit perfectly. Just the thing for one who didn't want to break away barefooted—and break away she would. She had to get out, back to Hogwarts and Severus. She find him, take him to Minerva and he'd make her see reason. If only he weren't so far away! She'd have to hail the Knight Bus...

She crept to the door, which opened easily, and peered down the hall. Either way she looked, empty. So far, so good! Emboldened by her plans, careful to make no sound, Sybill followed it to its T-shaped intersection. Windows along this wall overlooked a large courtyard. Hurrying along, she soon found an exit.

The yard closest to the hospital was ill lit,  _deluminated_  with bleary lamps and the flickering of charmed window flames. An arbor with a pagoda roof sat in the midst of the grassy, fog shrouded strip, while an iron fence and thick hedges ringed its perimeter. Cautiously—there'd be some form of surveillance in place, of course—she made her way to a large oak tree that grew by one corner of the fence. She'd never climbed a tree in her life, but how hard could it be, really? The way its branches forked and spread at such even intervals, it practically begged her to climb it. Placing one foot on a burl, she hoisted herself upward.

"Do you know me?"

Sybill shrieked and fell back, landing on her bottom in the wet grass. A man popped out from behind the tree. "Of course I know you, Professor Lockhart," she said, staring up at him, "I could've broken my neck!"

"Not trying to run away, were you?" Beaming, he helped her to her feet. "You can't, you know and believe me, I've tried. Whole place is charmed and alarmed to protect us from the world outside." He waved at the hedges.

"I have to get out," she said. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"There's a bench just over there. Why don't we have a sit and you can tell me all about it," he said, linking an arm through hers.

"I don't know what good it would do," she said, as he pulled her along. "No one believes a word I say. No one! Not even people I've known and trusted all my life. They're the ones who betrayed me, left me in this place. They all swore he was dead—still do—but I found him alive! If I could only get out of here, I could prove it."

"Sounds positively intriguing." He patted the bench. "I'm told I'm a great listener and it's not every day one makes two friends before breakfast."

"Two?"

"My tiny friend." Lockhart's hand disappeared into his robe pocket and returned cradling a large, black beetle. "I found him over by the fence," he said.

Sybill laughed in spite of herself. "What's his name"

Lockhart shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I'd only forget. That's why I'm here, you see." He tapped his head with one finger. "Tight as a sieve. But it makes me a great keeper of secrets," he said, stroking the beetle's back. "Awfully hard to spill the beans when you don't remember where you put them. So, tell me about this friend of yours, this latter day Lazarus. Why did everyone think he was dead?"

"Professor Severus Snape," she said. "You knew him. The two of you taught at Hogwarts." And then she told him everything: his tenure as Headmaster, his role during the war, everything she'd been told about the phony memorial service and the prophecy she'd been given. Light began seeping into the hem of the eastern sky. "I combed the castle—what parts I could—but found nothing until last night, when he flew in, right through the window. He wasn't a ghost but as real as you and me. He came back for me," she said, eyes misting. "I wish he'd come for me now!"

"Perhaps he will." As Lockhart patted her hand, the beetle crawled down the bench. He wanted to ask her more but the breakfast bell sounded. "Best not wait on an empty stomach. The omelets here are excellent." Rising, he extended his hand. "Off we go...What's your name again?"

"Sybill." Sighing, she followed him inside.

The beetle flew away through the fence. Alighting in the alley beyond the hedges, it assumed human form again and that form was decidedly  _not_ male. "Did you get all that," she asked her Quick Quotes accomplice.

The feathery pink pen bobbed its nib.

As she started to leave, someone stepped out of the shadows and blocked her path.

"Hello, Arthur. Here to befuddle me, are you?" She tossed her curls.

"That was quite a performance you gave at Hogwarts," he said.

"Acting always was my second love, not that I have to tell you that." She winked at him. "So, what brings you out before sunup—Molly kick you out of bed again?"

"Did she say anything useful, Rita?"

"She confirmed your suspicions," she said. "Well, all but the most toothsome of them."Gliding over, she started circling him, tickling his ears and chin with her pen. "Even though the only creature capable of changing its Patronus is a vampire, outing that will take the work of, shall we say, more practiced hands." Hers slipped inside his coat. "Many, many hands."

"Rita, please!" Flushing an even deeper crimson, he pulled away.

She laughed. "Oh, come on, Arthur. You want to catch a vampire; I want to bring a killer to justice."

"I think we agree they're both the same." He smiled.

"Then why not have a good time while we're about it?" Leaning in, her glossy lips brushing his ear, she whispered, "I think you'll find me a most generous collaborator."

"That still leaves us with what you're going to put in print today," he said.

"It'll make a juicy sidebar to the Malfoy piece. I'm sorry but I can't stall it any longer," she said, shrugging. "Instead, I'll leave you with an interesting tidbit—one that won't be in that article: someone cast an  _Imperius Curse_ on poor Sybill—an unusually strong one." Before he could ask, she tapped her nose. "Beetle...Each Unforgivable Curse has a signature odor: sulfur, swamp gas, and roses. Hers was more gunpowder than garden party." With that, she turned on her acid green stilettos and disappeared.

"You never cease to amaze me, Rita," Weasley said after her.

 

 


	11. Menacing Shades

 

# Menacing Shades

**Part I**

Blanketed in shadows, history and its secrets slumbered, gilt edge to edge and shoulder to shoulder. Among them, another shadow rose, a deeper dark soaring with intention against the folds of predawn's murky scrim. A cabinet door rattled once and then, again. On its topmost shelf, memories sealed in cobalt phials shivered and clinked, but the door would not budge and the portraits crowding the walls around it would not awaken. Undaunted, the shadow uttered a single word, one that set the cabinet shuddering on its base. Flames, bursting from its panes, formed a pair of terrible claws and the screech that followed, slicing through the stillness, sent the shadow reeling across the room.

The first roused from soul-enchanted sleep, Archibald MacNabb yawned and said, "Ah! Nothing like a little  _Fawkesfyre_  to stop a fiend in his tracks!"

"Fiend? It's probably that horrid, little man, taking advantage in Minerva's absence. Care _taker_ , indeed!" Rowena Ravenclaw hissed from her frame above the dais. Then louder, she said, "Tell us, Mr. Filch, how many Galleons did the likeness of our latest Headmaster fetch? I wouldn't give two Sickles for anything of  _his_." Tapping her frame, she illuminated the spot over McGonagall's desk with a soft glow but its light didn't reach the cabinet. "Blast it; I still can't see a thing! You're in a better position, Archibald, can you see him? Tell him to take his thievery elsewhere."

"I told you he'd come back! Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?" Helga Hufflepuff's words were muffled beneath the cloak she'd thrown over her head. "We're doomed...doomed!"

"He's just a Squib! Get hold of yourself, for Mercy's sake. How you ever became a founder of Hogwarts is beyond me," she said. The remark produced its desired effect. Helga threw her cloak off with a huff. "Glad to have you back, dear. Now put your position and those eyes of yours to good use. What do you  _see_?"

"You'll never get away with it," Archibald said. "Your kind never does."

"No, no! Please, no...." Moaning, Helga hid her face in her hands.

"Who won't get away? What's he taking this time? Helga? Archibald?" When she continued to cower, MacNabb still did not answer, and the surrounding portraits remained mute, Rowena appealed to another former Headmaster. "Phineas, wake up! We're being robbed!"

High on the far wall, a portrait burst into flames. Screaming, MacNabb plummeted from his perch, his portrait disintegrating before it hit the floor. Moments later, a jet of boreal green erupted in the dark room. Spiraling over the simpering Hufflepuff, its flames ensured she met the same, swift fate as her late colleague. Then, gathering itself into a filmy cloud, the killer wafted over to Rowena's frame. There it hovered, inches from her face.

Drawing herself up, she said, "Mine is a pure soul. I'm afraid you wouldn't like the taste." Oil drained from her canvas, splattering Minerva's chair, splashing upon the floor and trickling through the cracks, until only a blank canvas remained. However ingenious, her efforts were in vain; another spurt of  _fiendfyre_  barred any attempts at future restoration.

By now, the commotion had roused other late heads of Hogwarts. While some whispered and looked about anxiously, Salazar Slytherin tore off his nightcap and scowled from his emerald throne. "Can't a body rest in peace," he snarled. "Stop making such a racket!"

The cloud concentrated itself into a globe and hovered in midair. Then, radiating spiky wisps of jade, it exploded, sending shockwaves through the apartment. Papers flew and phials shattered. As every window in the room banged open, spraying rain and shaking portraits in their frames, a shadow slipped away on the wind.

 

**Part II.**

Night's solid obsidian diffused like watered ink. The wind held its breath and the sky paled, until its shade matched the misty veils that ghosted over the lake. 

Still clinging to the shreds of her dream, Hermione slowly opened her eyes to a vision of pale grey and green: the morning light through the diamantine-patterned window.

"Window?" Bolting upright, she found herself lying, not on the sofa by the fireplace, but atop Professor Snape's duvet. Her ears began to ring, a chittering star fall clouded her vision, and she flopped back on her side. Mind racing, she struggled to collect her thoughts. If this were a prank, it certainly wasn't the kind Peeves would pull. Throwing books and banging windows were more his speed; and while some poltergeists possessed tremendous strength, she'd never heard or read of  _him_  moving a body. She glanced at the bedside table, at the wand that sat beside the candle stub, the same as if she'd set it there herself.

 _If_ she'd set it there herself.

Which she most definitely  _had not._

She wasn't prone to sleepwalking and even if her body had decided to take a nocturnal stroll, why  _here_ , where she'd discovered that godawful scarf.

 _Sybill's scarf,_  a voice in her interjected. Filch never mentioned where they'd found her; if she'd had strong feelings for Snape, his quarters would have been the most logical place to sense his presence. While she'd never cared much for Trelawney as a professor, Hermione now pitied the woman whose grief had turned her divinatory gift into pure delusion. Inching to the side of the bed, she leaned over and stared at the spot where she'd dropped the scarf and the bottle. 

Both were gone.

She double-checked beneath the bed. Except for amplifying the pounding in her head, her efforts yielded nothing. She now began to wonder if she'd ever really seen them in the first place.

_He haunts these rooms! Filch said so. Filch said..._

Yes, he said many things, what of it. She preferred to attribute the night's events to stress, exhaustion, unfamiliar surroundings, and an overactive imagination—one further confounded by the resurgence of unexpected (although not unwanted) emotions concerning her former Potions professor.

She sank back and hugged a pillow. How many times had she cast furtive glances at the man whose secrets outnumbered the buttons on his frock coat? How many times had she imagined unfastening them, one by one, to release the unspoken passions that had lain imprisoned so long beneath that impenetrable, ebony fortress...How many times had she pictured silk rubbing wool, radiating sparks, each layer peeling away, forgotten, exposing the magnificent forbidden territory of  _him_? How many times had she imagined the sudden electricity of skin on skin; the rush of lips and tongues and teeth and exhalations, erupting hot and tormented in an empty room, the table shuddering and groaning beneath them. In how many of those charmed afterglows had she basked, besotted by the prospect of further assignations. If she could conjure those feelings so easily, then why couldn't Sybill do the same? Even now, she could feel his smoky voice purring against her ear, each syllable a sensuous tether, drawing her closer and pulling her deeper down.

She bolted upright.  _Tether,_  yes. Entrapment. The moment infatuation turned to obsession, the need to possess the object of one's desire kindling recklessness, madness: a mental potion more devious than  _Amortentia,_ all the more powerful when unrequited. Caught in that moment's inescapable thrall in the throes of a self-inflicted Imperius Curse, poor Sybill, convinced that she had nothing left to lose, had finally succumbed. The bottle, the open window: now they made sense. Severus' bedroom was the site of Sybill's botched suicide attempt!

Hermione rolled out of bed, went to the window, unlatched it, and looked down. Expecting to be much closer to ground, she was shocked to discover an almost seven-meter drop. Impossible, considering the apartment was located at least one flight  _down_  from the main floor. As she stared slack-jawed, a breeze wafted off the lake, tickling her nose with the tang of drowned green. As it stirred her hair, a voice whispered her name.  _His voice._  So close, so real, she could almost feel his breath against her cheek.

_Hermione..._

A lock of hair fell over her shoulder and his voice faded, settling like the wind into morning's wan tarnish, like dust motes in an empty room: the ghost of a ghost. A chill that began in her feet swept up her body, bringing with it a wave of dizziness and another glittering blizzard that threatened to obliterate her vision. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths, leaned against the windowsill, and willed it to pass. The ghost of a ghost: exhaustion and raw emotion reacting with residual energy, the vestiges of Professor Snape's spirit, his essence, thus producing quasi-paranormal phenomena. It made sense. The longer a person occupied a particular place, the more they imbued it with their energies, emotions, and memories. The place, retaining those physical and psychic energies over time, would become a kind of storehouse...A potential space, a  _sentient_ vacuum, which required a significant  _catalyst_  to reignite that energy. Her eyes flew open. "Rumplebolt's Magic Residual Theory," she said, allowing herself the day's first smile and a sigh of relief. "I'll bet this is happening all over the castle! If not properly defused by the new term, Hogwarts will be complete chaos! That's why Professor McGonagall wanted me back; she needs help to defuse it."

The voice spoke her name again.

"You can't scare me anymore; I know what you are," she said, knowing that Rumplebolt's theory only partially explained what she was experiencing inside the apartment. Her arms pimpled with gooseflesh. As she tried to rub some warmth back into them, she noticed her bandage had fallen off in the night. The book clasp had done more damage than she thought. On her wrist, two punctures above its slash still oozed. 

Summoning her backpack, she stumbled to the washroom, where another surprise awaited, although this time, one she didn't question. Replacing the cramped shower stall, a tub whose size rivaled Moaning Myrtle's bubbled and beckoned.

A long soak in its steamy, scented water revitalized her and whetted her appetite. Knowing the castle would be chilly, she pulled a fresh t-shirt and jeans from her pack, along with a rosy, zippered sweater. The moment she'd laced her boots, however, she heard a dull  _thud-thudding_  coming from the sitting room.  _"Not this again," she said, wand at the ready. "How much residual magic can one man have!"_  She threw open the door.

"Good morning, Miss." Filch looked up from the pile of kindling he'd just dropped beside the fireplace. "Didn't scare you, did I?" Turning back, he began stuffing sheets of crumpled newspaper beneath the smaller pieces of wood.

"Good morning, Mr. Filch. Yes, you—I mean, no. I didn't hear you come in."

"Key was still in the door," he said, removing a box of matches from his coat pocket. "Lucky for you it's Saturday, otherwise anyone on the work crew could've walked right in." Scowling, he watched the flames eat the newsprint. "Shifty bunch they are, always pocketing a scrap here or a trinket there. Anything to have a shiny prize, a piece of the historic battlefield: a murder of magpies, the lot!" Muttering under his breath, he turned away, his gaze passing over the bookshelves. "I hate to think what kind of mischief those rotters would get up to in here." He waggled a finger at her before returning to his work. "You should be careful too, Miss Granger!"

Since she didn't recall leaving the key in the lock, Hermione added this to what seemed to be her growing list of Impossible Things That Happened Before Breakfast. "Yes, Mr. Filch," she said, eyes traveling to the door and then, back to the fireplace. "I suppose you're..." seeing the empty frame above it, she trailed off.  _There's nothing unusual about that at all_.  _He could be off visiting one of the other headmasters_ ,she thought.

What  _was_  unusual was the appearance of the now-vacated canvas, a yawning impenetrable blackness that seemed to ripple soundlessly, like silent waves of a black sea... _or air in a sentient vacuum..._ A flush crept over her. "Mr. Filch," she stammered, "I wonder if you could explain something to me: We walked downstairs to get here, but just now, when I looked out the window, I could've sworn I was much higher in the castle."

"It's on account of that room," he said, "the secret one where you practiced dueling."

"I don't understand," she said. "The Room of Requirement burned down. I was there; I saw it."

"Only things burned what could be burned," he said. "There's a powerful spell over that room—Dumbledore told me—and all that magic had to go somewhere, didn't it? You'd be surprised how many rooms are bigger inside than outside or not where you thought they'd be, nowadays. Got to watch what you think or they play tricks on you. Gonna take some doing, setting that to rights again."

"I'd like to speak with Professor McGonagall about that," she said. "Has she returned?"

"Not yet." Rising stiffly, he nodded at the stuttering blue flames. "He said you might need—" Before he could finish, a coughing fit doubled him over.

When had Filch become so frail and so  _old_? The realization shocked as much as shamed her; no longer the sly, indomitable force she remembered, the stooped and haggard man before her looked twice as old as he had barely a fortnight ago. Was this the price he paid for living and working in a magical environment or was a deadlier ailment slowly eroding him from within? Easing him onto the sofa, Hermione rubbed his back. When his spasms subsided, she said gently, "Who's he?"

"Eh?" Still struggling to catch his breath, he wiped a glob of spittle on his coat sleeve.

"You said  _he_ just now, Mr. Filch.  _He_  wanted me to have some firewood. Who's  _he?"_

At the doorway, a striped cat with tufted ears scratched and mewed. Red faced, Filch indicated her, rasping, "I meant  _we._   _We_ thought you'd need some more wood!" Leaning towards the hall door, he said, "We were just going to start our morning rounds, weren't we?" Mrs. Norris scratched at the floor and mewed again. "There's my girl!" He said, beaming. "Why don't you come in and say hello?"

The old cat started in, but then, stopped dead in her tracks and arched her back. Hair on end, eyes owlish, she spat at Hermione. Then she bolted off, as if trying to outrun a swarm of Dementors.

"Persnickety old thing never did like it in here. Too near the lake, I suppose and now the catacombs are flooded it's even worse. The dampness just seeps into your bones. It never goes away neither, no matter how hot it gets outside. It's a wonder everyone in Slytherin House didn't catch tuberculosis!"

Outside, Mrs. Norris yowled.

"I'm coming, old thing! Don't get your tail in a knot." Filch rose. "Well, we'd best be getting on with our rounds now," he said, giving particular attention to  _we_  and  _our_  as he made his way to the door. "Oh, and seein' it's the weekend, you'll have to see to your own breakfast, what with those new SPIT regulations and all."

Stifling a laugh, Hermione nodded. "Thank you again for the firewood, Mr. Filch, you're too kind." Before she could finish, he'd disappeared down the hall.

 

**Part III.**

Unlike Hermione, Minerva hadn't slept a wink. Even if she'd wanted to, her bed had lumps in all the wrong places. Patches covered its blanket, and its sheets, which reeked of lavender bleach, obviously had been woven from the most scratch-tastic nettles that money could buy. Wind rattled the shutters and the inn's mice scurried ceaselessly in the rafters. Now, even more noise accompanied London's first light: hooves clip-clopped on cobblestones; merchants, making morning deliveries, loudly greeted one other from passing carts and lorries. In the distance, a bell, reverberating sourly, signaled the start of yet another day.

No use putting it off, then. Rising stiffly, every joint registering a formal complaint, Minerva dressed and packed her things. Saturday breakfast fare at the Leaky Cauldron consisted of weak tea, dry toast, a shirred egg that could've been a miniature Quaffle, and a watery gruel that looked as if it'd been made during the first Wizarding War. Minerva pushed it all aside. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a nice cup of pitch black tea with just a hint of malt, fried eggs, and Lorne sausage! Once she returned to Hogwarts, she would summon just that.

Then she remembered she couldn't, not until Monday. Today was Saturday, meaning there'd be no House Elves on the premises, thanks to an enterprising student's social reform. She made a mental to note to have a little chat with Miss Granger before the start of the new term. A five-day work week might be fine during the summer holiday, but the thought over four hundred students preparing their own meals twice a week made her head swim.

Hastening to the inn's Apparation Foyer, located just outside the pub room, a discarded  _Daily Prophet_ caught her eye. She didn't need her spectacles to read the headline splashed across the top of its front page, Malfoys Murdered in Cold Blood! Nor did she bother to read the story, having heard its most salient points from Arthur and Kingsley. The piece accompanying it, also written by the infamous Rita Skeeter, was another matter:

 

**SYBILL TRELAWNEY: BONAFIDE PSYCHIC OR LOVELORN LUNATIC?**

Lovelorn? She didn't like the look of that at all.

_According to an anonymous source close to the Ministry, St. Mungo's Hospital has yet another famous patient. Late last evening, Sybill Trelawney, former Professor of Divination at Hogwarts, joined the ranks in its Behavioral Health Wing after a botched suicide attempt._

_But was it suicide, Dear Readers? Our source says Trelawney's involuntary incarceration came on the heels of her latest premonition and multiple, clandestine meetings with her romantic partner, a former Hogwarts Headmaster and known Death Eater who, until now, Yours Truly, along with most of the wizarding community, believed dead..._

"Anonymous? I think not," she said through gritted her teeth, feeling the sting of betrayal's acid bath. Why else would Arthur follow her or employ an illegal Prying Sphere? Minerva's eyes narrowed.Bile rose. She could taste it in the back of her throat.Grinding her teeth and white-knuckling the paper, she continued reading.

_According to Trelawney, Severus Snape is alive and well—and hiding at Hogwarts! Recently, at a private memorial service on Hogwarts grounds honoring the war criminal and murderer of Albus Dumbledore, she was overheard saying, "His grave is hollow: blood will run."_

_And run it has, Dear Readers! Our source can also link Snape to the Malfoy slayings, as well as the brutal killing of a female Muggle with close ties to Hogwarts whose identity at this time remains undisclosed, pending notification of next of kin..._

On her forehead, a vein swelled and throbbed.

_Oh, but that's not all! Rumor has it that the not-so-late Severus Snape has a rare gift that far exceeds his talent for duplicity. Showing his true colors at his "memorial" service, he revealed his true Patronus. It was not a white doe, which some like Minerva McGonagall would have you believe—no, nothing so mild and meek—Severus Snape's true form has teeth! His Patronus is dragon! A white dragon! As you all know, Dear Readers, only one creature in all of wizardom is capable of changing its Patronus..._

McGonagall winced. For there it was in black and white, the last word in the last paragraph of Skeeter's ludicrous, libelous drivel: the last twist of the knife. Fear in a font: seven deadly, little letters, declaring a dreadful accusation, a malediction in a single word:

_Vampire!_

The room spun and her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Flinging the paper aside, she staggered to the Apparation Foyer. Forcing a vision of home into her still-seething mind, she finally fixated upon a formidable pair of black iron gates. While far from her ideal choice of landing, perhaps a long walk in the crisp morning air would soothe her temper and quiet her still-fluttering heart. Holding the image, while turning on the spot, Minerva  _disapparated_  with a furious  _pop._

 

 **Part IV.**   

In a suburb outside London, the new day was also getting under Petunia's skin. As if the drone produced by the street lamps wasn't bad enough! Although it wasn't painful, she could still feel the sensation over her entire body: a  _tangible_  unpleasantness. She hadn't felt it in the house across the street because she'd been too distracted by the throbbing in her teeth and the woman with the white goop on her face. The shrew who kept screaming for "Tuney" to stop, until the crunch of bone silenced her, leaving only the spurting flood, whose first swallow, mingled with all that white glop, had been as bitter as the stray cat she'd feasted on earlier.

It lay where she'd left it in the street. She watched the breeze tease its long white hair. Unlike the woman, it had at least tried to defend itself.  _Tried and failed, poor puss._  Gingerly, she touched one side of her face. To her surprise, her torn eyelid and gouged cheek had completely healed. As Petunia headed home, the streetlights sputtered out. In that merciful, sudden silence, whiffs of oily sludge from the river and factory smoke mingled with the wormy attar of rain-soaked earth. Overriding all was something else, however; something  _other_ , keener: something as unwanted as the hundred invisible spiderlings she could still feel stealing across her skin. Thinking she'd walked through a web in the garden, she brushed her coat, and shook her arms and legs, but found nothing amiss. It was so irritating, this thing she could feel but couldn't see! It never occurred to her to wash, even when she passed the sink. Picking her way over upended chairs, broken glass, and the wad of pink plastic on the floor, Petunia entered the sitting room.

 _They_  were still where she'd left them, too.

As she sank into an armchair, the odd feeling turned from creepy-crawly to devilish tickling. Not so terrible, she decided, just terribly confusing. She pushed up her coat sleeves and stared at her arms.

Nothing.

She hiked the coat over her thighs and examined her legs.

Still nothing.

Maddening! She supposed, if she stared from here until doomsday, she'd probably never identify the cause of her unease. So rapt in her assessment, Petunia did not notice the subtle tipping of the scales in day's favor: the bleary, but steadily brightening gray that made the living room windows look like giant, baleful eyes.

Their gaze now fell across the great hulk on the couch and the lump in the other armchair. Vernon's lips curled. One of Dudley's arms twitched.

Feeling their movements, each one a little tug wedged between tickling sensations, Petunia looked over at them. "Do you feel it, too?"

They said nothing, each caught in a dance of hitch and jerk, while a faint aura pulsed around them, particularly in the places where their bare skin touched the light.

Morning grazed her legs, turning the tickling to a pricking sensation. Its heat soon intensified, becoming like heated needles driven into her shins; her skin flushed crimson, blistered, and a bolt of blinding pain burst over her.

_Get out of there now! A voice shrilled inside her head._

Hissing, Petunia dove out of the chair and rolled into the hall foyer, where it was cooler and still dark. The pain ebbed, becoming a distinct tickling once again. Not perfect, she decided, but still better than being stabbed with red-hot pins!

Oddly, the others hadn't followed her. Peering around the corner, suddenly fascinated by the bodies squirming like unmanned marionettes, she said to the fat man with fair skin, "How can you stand the heat? Aren't you afraid of catching sunburn?"

Memory squirmed inside her head. Sunburn, wasn't there a balm for that? Part of her knew that she needed to  _do something_  but she couldn't remember what. Hugging her legs, hoping the little friend inside her head would enlighten her, Petunia waited, watching as daylight poured through the windows and sideswiped the boy in a brilliant, blinding wash. He recoiled from it instantly, half-sliding and half-falling over the chair arm.

The other one wasn't so lucky. A sunbeam hit him square in the face.

Fascinated, she watched his skin redden, blister, and bubble. Howling like a trapped animal, he clawed at his face and chest, tearing his flesh away in ragged, bloody shreds. On the floor, but by no means out of harm's way, now the boy's face contorted. His arms flailed, his back arched, and his broken neck grated with every convulsion. As the back of his head burst into flames, his eyes flew open. Turning towards her, he screamed, "Maaamaaa! Maaaaw-maaawww! Awwww! Haaaawwwt! Maamaa-maamaa—Maama!"

 _Mama._ The word was like a hammer shattering the glass bell of her trance. "I'm here, D-d—d-dudders! Mummy's here!" Crawling on all fours to the threshold, she called out to the form that was now doing its herky-jerky voodoo dance on the carpet. Pounding the floor, Petunia screamed, "No, here! I'm here! Over here!" When he didn't respond, she reached into the light.

 _No,don't!_ the Little Friend shrilled, too late.

It felt like plucking a burning log from a fireplace. Yelping, cradling her injured hand, she shrank back into the shadows. "I can't! I can't!" she said, whimpering.

 _Hide,_ the voice whispered.  _Hide now!_

"But, he's—he's my—my..."

 _What?_ The voice sounded mildly amused.  _What is he to you?_

"And him too," she said, nodding in the fat man's direction. "He's, he's my...They're my..." She sank to all fours, unable to find the words.

_It's too late for them; save yourself._

Wisps of greenish flame flickered inside the boy's shirt and then, licked around his collar and sleeves. The man, having become a roiling, orange inferno, lurched off the sofa, just as the smaller one crashed into the coffee table. Careening together in a fiery embrace, the two fell in a flaming heap on the rug. Lurid flames singed the ceiling and then, imploding, reduced both men to a single, charred heap.

 _Hide now,_ the voice said.  _Sleep..._

Light blurred through the front door. Petunia scuttled away from it, only to find the kitchen behind her awash with brightness. Looking into it made her head ache. "Where do I hide? Where," she whimpered, pounding one loose fist against the bead board paneling.

It made a dull, hollow sound:  _Uh._

She pounded again.

_Ah-ah-hah._

Now she saw the knob; she turned it.

_Ooooh!_

It opened on a cubby containing a narrow mattress and a blanket. Both were a little worse for wear but Petunia was beyond caring. Tearing away the thick curtain of cobwebs, she crawled into the small, windowless space and locked the door behind her. Soon, the woman who used to be Petunia Dursley floated down a well of perfect darkness to a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

**Part V.**

Slightly nauseous from her trip through the magical equivalent of hyperspace, Minerva tottered through Hogwarts' iron gates. A flick of her wand reset their locks but could not stop the ground from shifting beneath her feet.

If only she could see the ground! Swirling, cloying, cold and thick, a relentless cloud of mist, constant as a living cobweb, swaddled her feet. It mounded before her in misshapen columns, blotting out the sky, gobbling every shaft of sunlight that struggled to pierce its seine. Its droplets beaded her hair, seeped through her clothes, and trickled down her spine, creeping into her very bones. Undaunted, she forged through it in true Highland fashion, her skirts whisking away its low-lying clouds as she made her way to the newly repaired bridge.

Midway, she stopped and listened. Wind hissed through the grass and water dripped from the trees, but behind those trees, something was watching her,  _following_  her. She'd sensed it ever since she'd left the gates, a presence dogging each suck and release of her steps in the spongy ground. A twig snapped. "Is that you, Mr. Filch," she called out, hoping the voice that carried out was not as anxious as the one in her ears.

When no one answered, she turned, intending to go on, but a sudden and unbearable hammering in her chest forced her to stand still until her breath returned. If only there weren't so much fog! In all her years at Hogwarts, she'd never seen such a thick and sinister accumulation. Refusing to clear, its slow-moving spirals swallowed the familiar, transforming it into an alien landscape of odd humps and brooding hulks. Then, more branches snapped and something heavy landed in the wet grass. How near, she could not judge, for the mist distorted both landscape and distance. "Firenze?" she whispered.

The unmistakable scrape of sharp against stone answered. Claws! Minerva drew her wand. The last thing she wanted to tangle with out here was a Hippogriff or a Blood-sucking Bugbear, although she hadn't seen the latter on the grounds in over thirty years. Fingers of one hand tangling in a tuft of grass, she took a deep breath and pulled herself out of the mud.

Using branches and exposed roots, she climbed the rain-slick slope to the top of the knoll. Her pursuer followed, crashing through the underbrush and snarling at the jinxes she cast. Finally, the land leveled and hardened, and she could see the tip of a dark peak amidst the fog. The long bridge! Her heart soared. Just a few more steps and she'd be inside its charmed walkway, safe from harm. Casting another jinx behind her, she turned, hitched up her skirts, and ran.

Rising from the depths, emerging from the very essence of mist, hair drenched, eyes fathomless as pitch with a gaze haunted and hollow, Severus waited.

Hollow, yes: Minerva could see the walls of the bridge through him. 

They entered the covered span together. One's chest heaving and the other's form becoming more solid with each step. "You shouldn't have returned," she gasped.  

"I never left."

A nail caught the toe of her boot and she fell hard on the planks.

Severus helped her to her feet, slipped his arm around her waist, and looked deeply into her eyes.

Unafraid, she stared back. "They know.  _Arthur_  knows. It's no longer safe for you here."

Drawing her close, he tilted her chin and said, "We could make it safe. Together."

"Together? Do not think me some lowly  _sybil,_  easily ensnared by your thrall. I may have lied to protect you and betrayed those I loved for you, but I have never forgotten what you are!" She raised her wand.

"I can hear every thought you have, feel every desire that quickens in your heart." Fingers, cold as stone, dug into her arms. "I can feel the hoof beats of the Pale Rider thundering down the long corridor of your life, growing nearer with each passing hour; I can hear the whine of his raised sickle. Don't lie to me, Minerva. I can smell the fear in your blood." Then, fixing her with his dread-dark gaze, he said, "I could offer you Eternity."

Outside, claws, grating against stone, drew sparks.

"A cage," she spat. "Although bound by time, I do not fear it as you do, Severus." Wrenching away, she steadied herself against the railing and glared at him. "Let the Pale Rider come; I'm ready." Opening her arms, she said, " _Exipio mortem!"_

Boards groaned. An enormous black beast bounded inside the bridge. With a roar that shook the structure, it lunged, snapping its jaws. Sideswiped by its massive bulk, Minerva fell, striking her head. Snape disappeared in a wisp of smoke.

"Fang, where'd yer run off to, you bloody beast!"

Barreling in from the fog, Hagrid stumbled over Minerva's body.

 

**Part VI.**

After fixing a breakfast tray, Hermione headed for the Great Hall to await Professor McGonagall's return. Although still missing most of its furnishings, a few of the hall's tables sat by the great hearth. After settling in at one of these, Hermione looked up at the ceiling, wishing an owl from one of her friends could find her. The swirl of thick clouds overhead told her otherwise.

Someone had left a week-old copy of  _The Quibbler_  on a nearby bench. "Better than nothing," she said, voice echoing through the room's near emptiness. She picked it up and started leafing through its pages. The articles about Snorkack sightings, Gernumbli repopulation statistics, and advertisements for Wrackspurt repellent made her giggle. Some things never changed. Sometimes, this was even a good thing. Then she looked about the hall, amazed how so much had been repaired in so little time. New mortar peeked between the stones along its far wall and faint light gleamed in the panes of the long window. The side windows, now replaced, sported parti-colored glass; beneath them, wall benches, newly repaired, gleamed with varnish.

Leaving her seat behind, Hermione walked the length of the Great Hall. Running her hand over smooth wood and spotless stones, she found not a stain or scar. Everything had been replaced, scrubbed, or polished. "As though nothing ever happened here at all," she said, tears stinging her eyes. No matter how many crews refurbished or how long, she could still see them: Tonks, Lupin, Fred, the bodies of friends and professors, the dead, the dying. She could still hear the curses and hexes zinging through the air, could still taste the sour, metallic smoke that choked the room on that bright May morning. Though part of her knew the fortress' restorations were only fitting, the feeling that those reparations were a pitiful attempt to erase all memory of those who'd given their lives for freedom was like a dark splinter wedging its tip in her heart.

In the fireplace, a stray draught stirred the ashes, sending out thin tendrils and an acrid stench. The scent of things that could never be undone; the attar of the past. Outside, the first rays of sunlight flared through the fog, suffusing the hazy panes of the new windows with gingery gold. Too weak to breach the frosted glass, they cast only a wan glow, a ghost of morning in the room.

 _More ghosts,_  she thought.  _I shouldn't have come here._  She sent the tray back to the kitchen with a flick of her wand but as she started to the door, her gaze fell upon the now-empty dais where the staff used to take their meals. When school reopened in the fall, students would return but how many of them would notice the empty chairs, empty spaces, the voices forever stilled? How many would know the spot where Voldemort fell or where Neville beheaded Nagini, the final Horcrux, the last, living vessel in which the Dark Lord hid his soul?

Nagini...her thought turned to Severus once more. The snake's bite killed him...

 _What if it didn't?_  His voice echoed in her head.

"I watched you die," she whispered back, thinking the voice she now heard was escaped magic from the Room of Requirement, nothing more.

_What if you only saw what I wanted you to see?_

"How did you survive, then, Professor: numinous transference, by creating another Horcrux, or perhaps you went to your storeroom and un-stoppered your best death-stoppering potion? You boasted about having one once, if memory serves."

"Let me show you."

No longer in her head, his voice echoed high in the room.  As she looked up, a dark shape swooped from the rafters and landed on the dais. "Professor Snape?" While the man who was now slowly approaching her certainly resembled him, his eyes had a strange glint and he seemed to be made more of shadow than substance.

"Come with me."

Shaking, she backed away. "No! You're not real!" Before he could speak, she raced out and slammed the Great Hall doors behind her.

"Don't be afraid," he said from behind them.

"You're not real! Go away!" She threw her weight against them, hoping it would be enough. "I've had enough of ghosts for one day!" Suddenly, she heard frenzied barking coming from outside the castle. 

 


	12. Until It Sleeps

 

 

# Until it Sleeps

"Argus! There's been an accident," Hagrid bellowed. The door shivered beneath his kicks. "Open this bloody door!"

Filch was nowhere in sight. Hermione sprinted to the entryway and tugged at the pulls on one of the immense doors. Heavier than she remembered, she'd barely cracked it open when Hagrid pushed through with an unconscious Professor McGonagall in his arms. Hot on his heels, Fang followed, nearly knocking Hermione off her feet. Scowling at first, he said, "Took ya long enough, Argus, what are ya, deaf or...Oh, it's you Hermione. Sorry. Didn't expect to see you back so soon. Well, good! Let's get her to the Infirmary. Fang, stay!"

"What's happened," she asked, running after him. "Was she attacked?"

"Found her on the bridge," he said. "Think she's had another one of her fainting spells."

"Another? How many has she had?"

"This makes three I know of," he said as he bounded up the stairs, taking three and four at a clip. "Started just after school closed. Old age catchin' up, she says but I'll tell you what. She don't eat more'n a bird, that's her problem. Old age—phaw!"

Reaching the landing, he paused in front of the clock to catch his breath. When Hermione joined him, he said, "Don't know what she was doin' out there but she did a number on her head this time. Open that door for me."

After charging into the Infirmary, he deposited McGonagall in the nearest bed. "Fetch some water and bandages. They're just over there," he said, grimacing at the blood that covered one side of her face from forehead to shoulder. "Can you hear me, Minerva?" When she did not respond, he leaned over and felt her wrist for a pulse. "Stubborn as ever." He nodded. "She'll come back to us."

When she returned with dressing supplies, Hermione saw that he had already removed the professor's soiled cloak and was not attempting to unpin the emerald and silver brooch that secured her high collar. Its dainty clasp proved too much for his clumsy hands but Hermione unhooked it in a flash. As she loosened the stiff fabric, however, she found more wounds on McGonagall's neck. Older, from the look of them: a series of tiny scabs, each encircled by a bruise. "Hagrid, what could have made these," she asked.

"Her hands shake something fierce," he said. "Haven't you ever noticed? Probably poked herself."

For as long as she'd known McGonagall, the elderly witch had always looked and sounded so  _old_ , she'd just assumed the obvious. Now, too embarrassed to press the matter any further and believing that this was yet another clue to why she'd been summoned back to school, Hermione turned her full attention to the larger wound. After a thorough cleansing, thankfully, it proved to be only a small laceration, which she dabbed with dittany and covered with gauze. During her ministrations, McGonagall murmured but did not awaken. After she'd finished, Hermione tucked a blanket around her, pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, and said, "I'll stay with her."

"No need for that," he said. "I'll get Sybill. Lookin' after someone else'll do her a world of good."

"But Professor Trelawney's not here, Hagrid." Then, she told him  _why_.

"That don't sound like our Sybill at all," he said. "Oh, sure, she's always been a little flighty, havin' premonitions'll do that to a person, you know—but moonin' over Perfesser Snape? I dunno who tol' you that but nothin' could be further from the truth. She always kept her distance on account of him bein' a Legilimens, afraid he'd read her mind and steal her secrets. Can't say as I blame her for protecting what's hers." Taking a large handkerchief from his coat pocket, he mopped his brow.

"Mr. Filch told me. He found her."

"Well, he hasn't been himself and the last I seen of her was the night we laid Severus to rest. Even before she went on about hollow graves and such, she was working herself into quite a state over all the ghosts she said were hiding in the castle, afraid to come out. Didn't want to say nothin' at the time, but what they got to be afraid of, bein' dead an' all? But I told her, I said: even dead folks gotta adjust." He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Well, I'd best go find Argus. He can look in on her later. When she gets like this, she can stay out for a long time. If you need a good, strong cup of tea, Poppy's got the makings in that storeroom back there." He pointed to the back of the room and then lumbered out, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.

No ghosts? Apparently, they were only hiding from Professor Trelawney.  _If they were ghosts at all..._ Rumplebolt, the Room of Requirement's magical seepage, and even her half-formed hypothesis about numinous transference: each offered a more reasonable explanation of events than Filch's,  _Tale of the Lovelorn Lush_. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms and scowled. Why had he lied to her? More importantly, why had she  _believed_  everything he said was true? But hadn't she just seen the same vision of Snape flying without a broom; hadn't she just heard him make her an offer similar to the one he made Sybill?

Tired of too many inexplicable events, too many conflicting variables, Hermione sprang from her seat. Mimicking the words of Snape's ghost, she said, "It's time for you to see only what  _I_  want you to see." Drawing her wand, she began walking around the room in a slow circle.  _"Protega Maxima...Fianto Duri...Repello Inimicum..."_ Since she did not know if her protection spells would be strong enough to bar spirits or residual energy, she added,  _"Repello Fantasma...Repello Phantasmata...Repugno Spectra,"_ and threw in a  _Muffliato_ for good measure.

Satisfied with her efforts, she began exploring the room, admiring the intricate woodworking and columns, and allowing the wall's soft beige to soothe her nerves. A bookshelf ran the length of the wall by the storeroom. Having had her fill of texts with teeth, she browsed Poppy's extensive collection of medi-witch supply catalogues and nursing magazines, many of which were outdated. Finally, she found something more recent, a single issue of  _The Journal of Wandless Healing._ She took it back to her seat, hoping its contents would be as benign as its brown cover suggested.

Between glossy, full-page ads for Nu-Skele-Gro (the flavor they'll crave in their bones!) and those for Spectacula Tabs (take a bite out of your blues!), the journal's table of contents looked promising, at first. One article, extolling the virtues of dirigible plums for heightening personal consciousness, was as amusing as it was implausible. Another, claiming to be a research study comparing the efficacy of sublingual mandrake paste vs. raw leaves in releasing one's "inner animagus," proved nothing more than a series of testimonials touting an exclusive (and expensive) brand of hydroponic mandragora. Following these were items highlighting upcoming conferences in advanced aura differentiation, past life regression, and for a mere thousand Galleons, the adventurous at heart could partake in either a Devil's Snare Vision Quest or something called a Negativity Flush, an attitudinal makeover complete with Stinksap facial and Bubotuber aromatherapy at the New Stonehenge Spa and Sweat Lodge.

Stinksap and Bubotubers? Surely, this had been someone's idea of a joke. Poppy was too sensible to believe in pseudocraft and Hedgewitchery. On the bright side, at least the journal hadn't launched an attack. Chuckling, she tossed the magazine on the table, knocking Professor McGonagall's brooch on the floor as she did. It split open as it landed. Thinking she'd broken a priceless heirloom, Hermione moaned, slid out of her chair, and knelt down to investigate.

What she discovered prompted a moment's déjà vu, one that set her thoughts racing again. The brooch, actually a locket, hadn't been broken at all. Careful to avoid its tarnished clasp, she opened it, revealing what its silver interior had hidden all along: a scrap of folded parchment. Beside her, McGonagall murmured in her sleep. 

When she did not awaken, Hermione turned back to the parchment. She did not know how long she sat staring at the folded scrap of paper, debating whether to open it. Any way she rationalized it was an invasion of privacy, a betrayal of trust. Outside, the sun conceded its battle with the burgeoning clouds and the wind rose, spattering raindrops against the windowpanes. Inside, insatiable curiosity finally won a battle of its own: Hermione carefully unfolded the parchment. Scrawled across its surface, lines of rust-colored calligraphy resembled a poem:

 _Asphodel and aconite in water or in wine_  
Slakes undying appetite if taken over time;  
When introduced beneath the skin,  
It shields from wont unkind.  
Yet like a curse that leads astray  
Fed but once, forever it will stay.

What she held was no poem but a vague recipe for a potion, an appetite suppressant of some kind, and now, recalling Hagrid's words, Hermione's head reeled. Asphodel, a foul poison, had no medicinal uses to her knowledge; the only one she could think of for aconite was its use as a werewolf repellent. Why would the professor take something like this? She scanned the paper again.  _Beneath the skin...Undying appetite..._ The verses spoke to an unquenchable hunger, eating away at its victim, eroding her from within. "A tumor? Cancer?" Impossible, she decided. Witches and wizards were immune to such diseases.

Unless she'd been hexed. It could've happened any time during the war; a spell so horrid that slowly starving herself, poisoning it into submission was the only cure. Hermione could think of only one wizard vile enough to cast such a curse but dark magic lived only as long as its caster. By that logic, Voldemort's malice should have died with him. So why hadn't it?

There was still so much she didn't know! Equally enigmatic was the author of the strange rhyme, whose initials, O.L., provided the only clue to his or her identity. Hermione refolded the parchment. Only after returning it to its hiding place did she notice the chill that had stolen in with the rain. She tucked another blanket around the professor before heading to Poppy's storeroom to make a cup of tea.

Cold wasn't the only thing that came in with the dampness.

Outside the ward, at one with the shadows, Severus waited, watching and listening, even as Hermione cast the magical barriers that should have barred her from his sight. They shared a connection now: he was in her blood and she in his. Easy, it would be so easy for him to take what he wanted, what his psyche had experienced in her dream: to savor in flesh the tantalizing fruit his miserable existence had placed on the most far-flung of branches. She could no more hide from him now than she could command the sun to move backwards. The sun...while it remained hidden behind the clouds, for the first time, he could feel it squirming over his skin, leeching his strength. The price of becoming, a moment's penance offered for a lifetime of masking his essence. A price, yes, for great power always demanded an equally great sacrifice.

His glance fell on the bed. Sacrifice. Minerva knew that. She would not stay down for long and when she saw what he had done, she'd stop at nothing to defeat him. Their battle began the moment she rejected his dark gift. If he ran, she would hunt him; if he forced his will, he would turn her into a monster, a mindless creature driven by appetite alone. Minerva, his oldest friend! He threw back his head and a moan, indistinguishable from the susurration of the shower outside the window, escaped his lips. Every path ended in death and Death mocked him at every turn. He would find a solution but what he needed to do now was hide and rest.

 

**Part II (London)**

"Swing set, wet day, she's there, I say, 'Please share my umbrella.'" Blue brolly in one hand, Gilderoy Lockhart swung around one of the arbor posts and sashayed his way to a spot next to Sybill on the glider. Around him, other patients clapped and hollered in approval.

"That's lovely," she said, giggling. "I used to adore that song."

"Really? I could've sworn that I just made it up. Well, I made you smile, at least." He scooted closer to her. "What've you got there?"

"The latest indignity that odious Madame Lavatska's trying to foist upon me," she said, tilting the paper dispenser so he could see its contents. "Better living through chemistry: the white ones are Fug Lifters and the red ones are supposed to quell angst. Well, this is what I think of her therapy." She scrunched the cup in her hand. Before she could sling it into the nearest puddle, however, another patient, a man in a black watch cap, grabbed her by the wrist.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you, love," he whispered. "They're worth more than you think."

"Simon, isn't it? From group therapy?"

He nodded. "I thought what you said earlier was very moving. He's a lucky bloke, your friend. What'd you say his name was?"

"Severus. Severus Snape," she said, feeling waves of a familiar lightness wash over her with every syllable. "Oh, I wish he'd come to me, whisper to me! He says the most fantastic things whenever we're together and want to know the best part? The Universe falls silent when he speaks. It's such a relief!" She tapped her head and giggled.

"About those pills," he said.

"I don't need them. They won't work, anyway," she said hotly. "The only thing that does—what I really need—is a drink. What I wouldn't give for a nice sherry! But as long as I'm stuck in here, I'm afraid that's off limits." She waved at the fence. "Trapped like a rat in a cage!"

"You can't get out, but the Candyman can get in," he said.

"Who?" Both of them asked.

"Comes every day. There's a thin spot just over there, where the wards are weak. You'd be surprised what moves through those bars without setting off the alarms." He nodded towards the oak tree. "He'll get what you need and bring it back after dark. Anything you want..." Leaning in, Simon whispered. "Anything at all..."

"But I have no money," she said.

"You've got all the currency you need." Taking the cup from her hand, he said, "These babies are like gold on the street."

Sybill looked towards the fence again but could see nothing but fog in the alleyway. "I've never done anything like this before. What's his name? What should I say to him?"

"Leave it to me. Sherry, right?" He pocketed the pills.

Laying a hand on her arm, Lockhart said, "I don't think this is such a good idea, Sherry. How well do you know this fellow?"

"I think he has a kind face—just like yours, Gilderoy," she said. "How could you not trust your own face?"

"Well, when you put it that way..." he worried his curls with one hand. "I'm sorry, which one of us is Gilderoy? Awfully antiquated, isn't it? Is it a family name?"

"You see how well their treatments are treating him. Your guess is as good as mine, mate." Simon clapped him on the back and then, laughing, shuffled over to the tree.

Behind it, a tall, hooded figure waited. "You sure took your sweet time," head low, Fenrir Greyback growled.

"Had to be sure she's the one, didn't I?"

"Well?"

"It's her, alright," Simon lit a cigarette. "And she knows where to find him. With any luck, she'll lead us right to him."

"Him into our trap, you mean," he said. "She recognize you?"

"I'm the bloke with a kind face," he said, chuckling. "Even if she did look under my cap, I doubt all those stitches would ring any bells. Damn woman nearly killed me with her blasted crystal ball. Oh, before I forget," he said, taking the pills from his robe pocket. "Baby wants her bottle."

"Keep 'em for your trouble," Greyback said. "Just be ready."

 

**Part III (Questionable Testimonies)**

"Another development, Minister?" Weasley stumbled out of the Floo in Kingsley's office.

"One of the Aurors just delivered this from the Malfoy estate." He indicated an enormous, burlap-wrapped parcel propped against the wall. "Care for a brandy, Arthur? You're looking a little ragged around the edges. Things must be going well at home." He smirked.

"I was up later than intended and out earlier than expected. Now that the war is over, Molly no longer approves of such activities. She made that point quite clear." After taking a snifter from Kingsley, he nodded at the parcel. "Is that what I think it is?"

"The Malfoys wish to offer their posthumous testimony."

Weasley whistled through his teeth. "Portrait testimony's a dicey business under the most ideal circumstances. Do you think it'll stand up under cross-examination by the Wizengamot?"

"Before subjecting them to the rigors of a trial, let's first hear what they have to say."

Kingsley peeled away the coarse cloth and the protective inner wrapper, revealing a stunning portrait, one that struck a chord of pity in both men's hearts. Younger, blonder, each radiating the unbounded optimism only the mad or madly in love possess, Narcissa and Lucius posed beneath an arbor of moonflowers. A drove of will-o'-the-wisps flitted around them. Flickering in the strands of Narcissa's waist-length hair and the folds of her strapless gown, they sparkled like impossible, miniscule stars. A head taller, clad in black silk, arms wrapped around her waist, a young Lucius gazed at his life mate with untold pride.

"The Eternal Troth, now there's tradition for you," Arthur said, nodding at the tendrils of trace magic that still blazed on Lucius' hand. "I'll bet the Black family insisted." While he thought he saw one of Narcissa's brows arch, Lucius was the first to break the silence of their idyllic, newlywed tableaux.

"Weasley, I might have known you'd be part of this!" Advancing to the foreground, he spat.

Knowing Malfoy couldn't step beyond the confines of his frame but still unwilling to push his luck, Arthur stepped out of spitting range and said, "Hello, Lucius. Death hasn't softened your temperament, I see."

"And you, Kingsley, stop ogling my wife. You plodding, pretentious—Ouf!"

Interrupting his insult, Narcissa clobbered him with her bouquet, covering him in a flurry of blue dendrobium and paper whites. "Stop being so childish! Remember why we're here." Flinging herself past her husband, she said, "Minister, where is Draco? Where is my son? Is he..." Trembling, eyes bright, she fought to finish. "Does Draco know we're...dead?"

"We're still trying to reach him," Kingsley said.

_"Try harder," said Lucius, seconds before Narcissa elbowed him in the ribs._

"I am sorry to find us meeting again under such delicate circumstances. I understand, however, that you wish to offer your testimony concerning the event surrounding—leading up to the morning of your...your..."

"The word you're groping for is death, Kingsley: our death." Taking his place beside Narcissa, Lucius Malfoy, an impatient malevolence in magical oils, intimidating even in his final manifestation, said, "To you, a mere word, but to us, an unwanted finality; an ugly reality but reality nonetheless. Just say it, Kingsley:  _Death_. It won't kill you..." His brow arched and one corner of his mouth curved upwards. "Yet."

"Don't be crass, darling," she said, whacking the side of his head with her rare, blue orchids. "Just tell them. Tell them what you told me."

"Yes, Lucius, if you have any useful information in this case, please share it with us," Arthur said. "Who is responsible for your deaths?"

The Malfoys exchanged glances. "We were in the garden, enjoying the last of the night air," Narcissa said. "I'd just gone to fetch some tea. I sensed someone behind me but when I turned to look, I felt a stinging heat and then, a terrible pain. I knew something was wrong—terribly wrong. I kept telling myself that I'd be fine, as long as I could reach Lucius, but I fell after that and then, then..." She shook her head. "Then, nothing." She buried her head in her husband's chest.

Smoothing her hair, he said, "I was somewhat more fortunate, in that I did see the face of our murderer. A face I thought I'd known well but in that moment, transfigured by hate, transformed by inhumanity. I cast the  _Avada_ in self-defense but it bounded off him and struck me down instead."

Gasping, Narcissa pulled away from him. "You never told me that!"

"No one can do that." Kingsley scowled. "You're aware that the penalty for lying is incineration?"

Arthur moved closer to the ornate frame. "Who deflected it, Lucius?"

"You believe him? It's impossible!"

"Yes, Minister, I once thought so, too. But then, I remembered that the  _Avada_  can only kill the living."

"You're saying you were killed by a ghost?"

"Not a  _ghost_ , Weasley, you pitiful excuse for a Pureblood!" Lucius stamped his foot. "A vampire!" Arthur suddenly snapped to attention. "I'd suspected it for some time, of course," Lucius purred, "You'll never guess who it is."

"Severus Snape." Thunder stolen, Malfoy's shocked stare was all the confirmation Arthur needed.

"You knew?" he spluttered.

"We've also suspected him for some time now, but lacked concrete evidence—proof," the Minister stammered.

 _We?_ Weasley shot him a withering glance.

Paling, Narcissa said, "Then this—our death—is some form of revenge because he died instead of Draco?"

"He's not _dead_ , Cissy."

"Whatever he is, he's not going to stop until he—" The bouquet fell from her hand. "Please, Arthur, stop him! You have to stop him before he finds Draco."

"I will." Turning to Malfoy, he said, "That's why you hired Greyback to hunt him down, isn't it? He's the only creature Snape couldn't turn."

" _I_  never said anything of the sort." Malfoy sneered at him.

"Because an attack by one would kill both?" Kingsley nodded.

"Not death; a fate far worse to endure and brilliant in its simplicity. If I'd engineered a coup to eradicate two, useless creatures—which I'm not saying I have, mind you—a scenario involving a werewolf and a vampire in combat would be a bargain at any price. Save your bonfire for Snape. What I told you about our deaths is true." Running his hand over the carved silver frame, he said, "Besides, I'm rather fond of it here. Life without depth suits me."

"Any ideas on where we might find Greyback?"

"Must I do everything, Weasley? Eternal rest, indeed." After a long sigh, he said, "If, as  _you've_  said, there's a reward for his capture, he'd be forced to keep a low profile: no snatching. Now, were I to hazard a guess—and mind you, this is pure speculation—I'd think Greyback would fall back on another, more lucrative habit of his: running contraband."

"We've scoured Knockturn Alley." He shook his head.

"Of course you have. The one place where thugs and Death Eaters would turn a creature like him over in a heartbeat," Lucius said, looking down his nose. "Now, step outside your investigative box and look in. Because he can't stray too far from his lair, Greyback would require a similar situation in his buyers. Not merely those who need his services as much as he needs their business; those who, because of the  _circumstances_ surrounding their limited mobility, would gladly offer silence in exchange for ill-gotten goods: a  _captive_  clientele." Smirking, he watched revelation's dawn break over Weasley's face. "Not the best plan, mind you, but again, one inspiring in its sheer simplicity. Wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur smiled and said nothing. A simple plan, yes...there was no question about it. Not for him. Not anymore. 

 


	13. The Chosen One

Harry Potter still remains the child of Rowling's imagination, I'm still just borrowing her characters for a bit of a non-profit lark.

 

 

# The Chosen One

Like rain trickling down the windowpanes, moments merged and morning flowed into afternoon, its passing marked only by the rustle of turning pages, exasperated sighs, and the soft  _whumph_  as one book after another assumed its place in a growing stack on the floor beside Hermione. In the academic setting, the scope of emergency medical treatment seemed limited to regrowing bones and undoing botched spells (petrification of one's classmates was not such a rare occurrence after all). She took a sip from her mug, and grimaced. Her tea, much like the room, had gone cold. While many of the texts had sections addressing toxic ingestion, all tended to hail the bezoar as the " _universal_ antidote for  _almost_  all poisons in the known world." Only one mentioned the poison she sought and then, only in an inscription beneath the sketch of a tall plant with pale blossoms and tapered leaves:

_Asphodel, more commonly known as Devil's Spike, was a familiar sight in cemeteries between the late 13th and early 17th centuries. Witches would often plant them around graves or at the opening of crypts, believing their flowers protected the living by offering sustenance to the newly deceased. While many ancient poems and ballads refer to this custom, the prudent practitioner, especially if unskilled in the proper distillation of such plants, should always forgo experimentation and consult their institution's Potions Master..._

Hermione groaned. While the Potions classroom was the most logical place to look for answers, it was also the place where she'd be most apt to encounter another manifestation of the late professor. "Consult him? Not bloody likely." Though the sound of her own laughter soothed her, something still bothered her, clinging to her consciousness like a stubborn cockle-bur. She reread the passage. Like the poem in the locket, it referred to appetite, only now, as appeasement for the hungry dead. "Late 13th to early 17th centuries," she murmured. A memory of lessons past stirred, history recounted by another ghost, only this one, far more pleasant. Her eyes widened and she sat bolt upright. "Of course! Professor Binns taught us this during Third Year: the Plague of Revenants!"

Now, she recalled his lecture. Born of ignorance, the Plague had swept across Europe, affecting Mages and Muggles alike. Plague, because a lack of scientific knowledge about the nature of death, coupled with numerous superstitions, turned morbid preoccupation into pestilence. Like a virus, it spread like wildfire, compelling those held sway to employ all sorts of spells, charms and talismans to prevent the return of spirits from the dead—in some instances, even digging up and disfiguring their bodies. She scowled. No, not just spirits and revenants, but those believed to have been taken by blood magic and assumed an aspect of its darkness after death: shapeshifters, werewolves, and vampires.

 _Vampires._  The word rang like a bell through her. Undying appetite, protection from its bite, fangs: it fit with the poem in the locket and correlated with the earlier idea she'd had about numinous transference via snakebite. That is, until a certain professor had intruded upon those thoughts.  _My thoughts, yes, providing answers to a question I hadn't even asked!_  Even now, she could still feel his strange, deep gaze in the pit of her stomach. A flush swept over her, bringing sudden palpitations that made her tremble. Pale, intense and enigmatic in life, death—if it was death—had given Snape an even darker, more dangerous aspect. But a vampire?

"Aspect, yes," she said, hoping the sound of her voice could quell her racing heart and shaking hands. "Fangs." She turned her thoughts to Nagini, whose markings had resembled those of a python—a hideous and enormous python, but a constrictor, nonetheless. Pythons did  _not_  have fangs, so where had they come from? Inanimate Horcruxes exuded a poisonous aura to protect the shred of soul hidden within them: that much she knew. Animate ones, already possessing souls, however, might pose an entirely different set of obstacles.

The soul or the Horcrux: which was the key? Springing to her feet, she began pacing about the room. What she knew of the psyche, the "twin of light" and essence of both life and afterlife, she had not learned in a classroom, Comparative Religion being conspicuously absent in the Hogwarts curriculum. Instead, she focused on lessons from experience. Two souls in the same body always vied for dominance. She knew this was true; having witnessed the effect on Professor Lupin during his were-transformation, as well as in the mind connection Harry had shared with Voldemort. She stopped at a window and drummed her fingers against its wooden sill for a moment; then she crossed to one of the columns, her eyes following the carved ivy up and into its arch: all twists and turns, tangles and knots. Sighing, she leaned against it. During her attack, could Nagini have created a Horcrux or  _sub-Horcrux_ , for lack of a better word? Could Snape having captured part of Nagini's essence, use it to transform and ultimately save his life? It certainly helped explain his altered Patronus and its eerie message of a path with neither end nor beginning. She paused, considering the path of the lemniscate, the eternal return. Now, it spoke more to a state of suspended animation than to one of transcendence. Suspended—but for how long? She knew only one way to cast out a Horcrux.

Her stomach did a little flip, leaving behind an unbearable heaviness. Here, finally, was the real reason behind McGonagall's summons: she wanted it—no, not it— _him_ destroyed! A year ago, being entrusted to perform a daunting task by those whom she respected most had filled her with an immense sense of pride and purpose. Senses now usurped by despair and dread, now that she was about to become the newest Chosen One. "With all your power and wisdom, you could see no other way? Whatever happened, he never asked for this. After all he did for Harry, for the Order, for you, this is how you repay him? It's not fair, Professor! It's not fair and it's not right!" Across the room, as if answering, Minerva moaned and stirred in her sleep. Wheeling on her, eyes streaming with righteous indignation, Hermione said, "If there's a way to save him, I will find it. I've had my fill of death!"

Far beneath her, tucked behind a frame in a space where night always held sway, Severus felt the trill of her rising blood, finding its fury every bit as revivifying as her erotic fascination, every bit as exquisite as the ambrosia in her veins. He ran his tongue over his teeth, probing the places where her coppery tang and peppery heat still clung to him. However muddled her reasoning, she had uncovered his essential nature. In doing so and in the keen sting of perceived betrayal that had followed so quickly on the heels of that discovery, Hermione had given him a precious gift; one he'd thought lost. Her fear, now subsumed by fierce loyalty, made her his protector. Let Minerva awaken! Hermione would neither willingly listen nor would she leave. He'd make certain of that.

Light crackled over the barrier. "Eh, what's this?" Hagrid's voice echoed through the chamber. "Hermione, you alright in there?"

"Sorry, just a precaution," she said. Two flicks of her wand set the bookcase back in order and dispersed the charm. "I think all Mr. Filch's ghost stories got the better of me."

"So he's been here then? Good. I was beginnin' to wonder where he'd got off to." Coat swishing, he made his way to Minerva's bedside. "Hate to think of you havin' to spend most of the day up here."

Before she could tell him the truth, bedsprings creaked. "Sweet Merlin, what happened? How did I get—Ooh!" Minerva said, gingerly touching the bandage on her head.

"You shouldn't try to move so quickly, Professor."

Kneeling beside her, Hagrid patted Minerva's arm and said, "You've just had another one of yer whifty spells and bumped your head is all."

Her hands flew to her chest and then, her neck. "Oh, my spectacles—where are they? I hope I haven't broken them again. And my brooch—I must have my brooch!"

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Shh, you just lie nice and still."

"Hagrid's right. You've been unconscious most of the day." She picked up the glasses and brooch from the bedside table and handed both to Hagrid.

"It must have been quite a bump, indeed," she said. "In fact, I'm still hearing things. Just now, I could have sworn I heard Hermione."

"You did." She moved closer to the bed. "I came, just as you asked."

Minerva adjusted her spectacles but after taking one look at Hermione, she moaned and tugged at Hagrid's sleeve. "It's worse than I thought," she said, hands tightening around his arm. "I'm seeing things now, too." Pulling herself up, she said, "Oh, please help me back to my room, Hagrid."

"Well, yer not walkin'." He scooped her up in his arms and nodded for Hermione to follow them out of the Infirmary and down the long corridor. "And you're not seein' things, neither. Hermione's here and she's every bit as real as you and me."

"Oooh, stop a moment, Hagrid, please. My head's throbbing," she said. Then, she looked up at him. "What did you say?"

"Our Hermione's right here." He angled her so she could see. "Been with you all day, she has."

Eyes widening, she said, "You shouldn't be here, Hermione. It's not safe. You must leave at once." She motioned for Hagrid to resume his pace.

"Leave? You asked me to come, Professor," Hermione said, struggling to keep up as he hurried to a set of narrow stone stairs, an alternate access to the seventh floor that had escaped damage during the conflict. "You sent me an Urgent Owl yesterday afternoon. I came straight away but Mr. Filch said you'd left before I arrived."

"You've been here all night?" McGonagall's face turned ashen. "Where did you sleep?"

"Mr. Filch let me stay in Professor Snape's rooms," she said.

"He did what? Oh, no! Oh, no no no-no!" With a final moan, Minerva fainted again in Hagrid's arms.

 


	14. A House Divided

 

# A House Divided

Molly Weasley dried the last of the dishes and put them in the cupboard. There weren't as many for tea today as she would have liked. Despite all her attempts at reconciliation, all her pleas for him to reassign the Malfoy case and reconnect with his family, the number of place settings for at the Burrow remained a stolid, Disappointment: Table for One. Day by day, as the cold fire in Arthur's eyes blazed brighter and his speculations grew more fevered, she saw her hope spreading as thin as a daub of butter over too large a slice of bread. She dried her hands on her apron, untied it, and hung it on a hook by the sink. Their marriage had survived two wars, a house fire, a French daughter-in-law, and one son's preference for dragons over damsels (distressed or otherwise). She looked up at the clock, at the wound that went too deep for even time to heal: the golden hand forever stilled over "Lost." 

For all the good it would do, Arthur could hijack the moon and hunt the sun. It wouldn't bring Fred back. Although she hated what she was about to do, he'd given her no choice. She daubed her eyes with a corner of her shawl and glanced at one of its larger hands. She only hoped it would be enough. Head held high, Molly strode out of the kitchen, grabbed the leather suitcase waiting at the threshold, and vanished.

"How did you get—oh, never mind. I should know better by now." Arthur shut the door and drew the shade over its tinted glass window. "But you should be more careful," he said to the pair of acid green stiletto heels propped on this desk. Trying his best to avoid gazing at the dainty ankles atop those shoes, and the long, shapely legs showing just a hint of garter before they disappeared in the shadow beneath a short, green skirt, he threw himself back against the door. "If someone were to see you like this—"

"A look is all they'd get." The legs crossed, one slowly rubbing against the other. The soft purr of silk against silk a come-hither siren no man could resist. "Sorry to barge in, Arthur, but I'm just dying to hear about your latest meeting. Dig up anything interesting? She giggled.

"More than interesting," he said, sliding one hand up her leg and into the folds of her skirt, "utterly damning."

"Marvelous! Do tell!"

"Everything's strictly off the record for now. I know how I'm going to catch him, but can't afford to tip him off." His hand stopped and then, quickly withdrew. "Merlin's beard, Rita!"

"Beard isn't exactly the word I would choose." She wriggled in her seat. "Still, I find your prudishness quite refreshing. I never dreamed I'd ever be attracted to someone who stood on such morally high ground," she said, swinging her legs off the desk and using the momentum to launch herself into his arms, "or a blushing redhead, at that. Do you realize, right now, I can count five shades of red on you?" Her hand began teasing his hair, but moved sinuously over his skin, her body pressing closer against his as her list progressed. "Ginger hair, crimson cheeks, russet freckles, a mulberry scar right there," she kissed his cheek, "and then, those lips. Those luscious, rosy lips..."

"Working hard, I see." Molly Weasley glowered at them from the doorway. Eyes flicking to Skeeter, she said, "Now I see what's been keeping you here so late." Skeeter skirted the front of the desk and tried to edge through the doorway but Molly blocked her path. "Don't leave on my account, Rita. Since you two love birds have already made such a comfy nest, I'll leave you to feather it together!" Before Arthur could protest, she threw the suitcase at them.

Shrieking, Skeeter ducked, lunged, and pushed past Molly, but Arthur, not as quick on his feet, caught it in the chest. He toppled backwards, screaming, "Please, Molly, it's not what you think!"

"Spare me," she said, slamming the door in his face.

 

 


	15. A Study in Emerald

# A Study in Emerald

"We'll get there quicker this way, Hermione. Follow me." Instead of heading for the stairs to the main floor after leaving the Infirmary, Hagrid headed to the right, down a corridor lined with vaulted windows on one side. Midway, he stopped and looked out over the fog-shrouded grounds. "Did Argus tell you where he was headed?"

"I tried to tell you earlier. I haven't seen him since early this morning, just before you returned." Looking out on the bleak landscape, she shivered. "I hope he's not still making his rounds. He said there'd been a rash of petty thefts lately and blamed the workmen."

"He's startin' to sound like his old self again." Hagrid chuckled.

"Is the Professor awake?"

"Not yet."

As they approached the entrance to the Headmaster's suite, the gargoyle that stood guard flexed its claws and snarled at them at first, but then, seeing McGonagall, it folded its wings and allowed them inside. As they passed through the narrow archway, a chill met them; a cold that only intensified as they rode upwards on the escalating spiral stair. The first to enter the Professor's office, Hagrid saw the flapping drapes, the scattered papers and the puddles of rainwater on the floor.

"What a mess. They must've blown open in last night's storm." Hermione hurried to close the windows and right the drapes.

After setting Minerva gently on the divan, Hagrid started to the fireplace but an empty space on the wall caught his eye. "Wind didn't do that," he said. Above him, the portraits exchanged glances, but none of the former heads of Hogwarts spoke.

"Didn't do what?" Hermione said, still whisking the pools of water away with her wand.

"Old Archibald MacNabb's missing," he said, pointing a singed spot on the wall. Then, turning, he took in the rest of the room. "So's Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Severus. They're all gone."

Behind them, Minerva opened her eyes.

"I don't know about the other headmasters, but Filch brought Snape's portrait back to his old quarters," Hermione said. "He said Professor McGonagall was going to throw it away."

"Wanted it  _moved_  is more like. Argus gets some funny ideas, sometimes," he said, and began to pick up the books and papers. Then he saw the cabinets and inside, the colored smoke wafting over bits of broken glass or hovering above small pools of a dark, oily substance. "But he may've been right about thieves. Someone's been in these cabinets who shouldn't have been."

"Not the memory collection!" Skirts rustled and the divan creaked.

"Professor!" Hermione ran to her. "You shouldn't try to move so fast."

"I'll be fine, just give me your arm." Leaning on Hermione, she tottered across the room. Peering through the cracked glass doors, immediately drawn to the topmost shelf, to the tiny bottles made of a glass so violet they appeared nearly black, Minerva was not surprised to discover that now, not one of them remained intact. Minerva flung open the doors, allowing the last tendrils of Severus' past to flood her nostrils with an odor as sharp as vinegar.

"Can you tell what's been taken, Professor," Hermione asked, shielding her nose with her sleeve.

"Not taken, broken. Broken beyond repair...So many irreplaceable memories, so much history, utterly destroyed," she said in a small, faraway voice. Then, clenching her fists, she began pounding on the wooden frame. "Vile, spiteful, malicious..."

"Come away before you cut yourself." Slipping one arm around her shoulders, Hagrid gently guided her back to the divan.

Hermione headed for the Floo Powder. "We should alert the Ministry. I'm sure Mr. Weasley will—"

"No, no we mustn't!" Minerva's voice rang through the room. But after seeing Hermione's shocked expression, she said, "I'm sorry, dear but I don't want to bother Arthur with something like this. It isn't the first intrusion we've had since the war ended."

"It's the first time someone's gotten so far in and past the gargoyle, at that," Hagrid said. "What'd they do, fly?"

Hermione ventured her next question cautiously. "Whose memories were they?"

"I'm not entirely certain. Professor Dumbledore kept a list somewhere. I've been meaning to find it," she said, one hand nervously brushing a wisp of hair from her bandage.

"Well, unless whoever did this was invisible,  _someone_  here must've seen  _somethin'_." Striding to the middle of the gallery, Hagrid addressed the portraits, "You're an awfully tight-lipped lot today. What the devil happened here?"

"Devil is such an amorphous term, it's hardly worthy of my legacy," Salazar Slytherin drawled from his gilt pane.

Hermione glared at him. "Your legacy ended with Voldemort."

"That's the wonderful thing about heirs, Miss Granger. Do your job right and there's one in every generation: an eternal return."

His last words jogged an unpleasant memory of Trelawney, moments before she began raving about blood and weeping moons; but before she could ponder it further, a violent choking fit seized Minerva. "Can I get you anything, Professor? Here, you must be freezing." She draped a tartan throw over her shoulders and conjured a roaring blaze in the fireplace. "Would you like me to fetch you a cup of tea?"

"No, something stronger, I think," she said, gasping. "Perhaps we should all have one. Hagrid, would you, please?" she said, pointing to a group of decanters and glasses on a nearby table.

"Oh, before I forget." He reached into his pocket.

"None for me thanks." Hermione stiffened as he passed Minerva the locket.

"This letter you spoke of before, do you still have it?"

"You really didn't send it?" When McGonagall shook her head, Hermione said, "It's with my things. I'll go get it, if you like."

"Not alone you won't! I don't know who sent you that Owl, but the more distance you put between yourself and Hogwarts right now, the better off you'll be." 

Hagrid returned with their drinks. Taking hers, McGonagall said to him, "Please accompany Miss Granger to Slytherin to collect her things and see her safely to the edge of the grounds. She can apparate home from there. I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, dear."

"I can't go home, Professor. I don't exactly have one at the moment." She told them what she'd done to her parents, what had happened to her the last time she'd tried apparating, and her meeting with Mrs. Stokes.

Hagrid interrupted, "Well, there's your answer, Hermione. Mrs. Stokes probably felt bad about how she left things and this was her way of tryin' to set them right." He downed his firewhiskey in one gulp and headed back to the decanter. "Vandals or not, you can't just throw her out, Perfesser. She's got nowhere to go!"

Minerva stiffened. "I'm not trying to throw anyone out!"

"You only want me to leave so you call kill him!" Rounding on her, knowing she'd just tipped her hand but unable to stop, Hermione's next words came out in a tumble. "You think he's a monster but he's not; he's just like Harry, an accidental Horcrux, only made by Nagini this time instead of Voldemort. I think that's what he was trying to tell us that night and I think he sent the letter because he needs my help—he needs all our help—and after all he's done for us, I will not let you hunt him down like an animal!"

"Who?" Both said.

"Professor Snape."

While Salazar's wry smile turned into a Cheshire Cat grin, Hagrid nearly choked on his firewhiskey. "Sehvuggh! Severus is dead, Hermione. I should know. I found him just where Harry said I would, brought him here, and even helped Argus clean him up. Think I'd have known if he were still livin', wouldn't I?"

 _You didn't notice Harry was alive the morning you carried him back,_  she thought. "What if you only saw what he wanted you to see?"

"I'd say it was an awful mean thing to do to those who cared about 'im," he said.

"Now, yes; but he wasn't so well-liked at the time of his...we didn't learn until later what role he really played." Hermione stopped and gazed into the fire. Its flames reminded her of teeth.  _Dragon's teeth._  Shuddering, she crossed her arms.

Only Minerva seemed unfazed by the outburst. "If Severus were still alive, I assure you that I would be the first to champion his cause; but I'm curious, Hermione, how did you arrive at this conclusion?" she asked softly.

"Earlier today, I accidentally knocked your brooch off the table." Hermione turned back to her. "It opened; I read what was inside."

"A token from childhood—not everyone keeps their memories in phials," Minerva said, "I don't know what you thought you read..."

"They were ingredients for a potion to repel a vampire. You've been injecting yourself with it, slowly poisoning yourself because you're afraid of him." Hermione tapped her neck.

"Severus, a vampire—you're mad!" Hagrid's laugh echoed down the gallery. "Then again, he always favored black. Looked like a giant bat sauntering down the corridors, he did." Mimicking Snape's gait down the length of the room, he tossed his head and flapped his elbows.

"I'm serious, Hagrid! Only, he's not a vampire and he's not dead! You can't deny that Professor Trelawney saw him—more than once—Mr. Filch told me," she said, before the professor could ask, noticing the way her hand trembled at the mention of Sybill's name. "She knew. That's the real reason you sent her to St. Mungo's, isn't it?"

"In the end, she gave me no choice. Sybill became fixated upon the castle's ghosts, especially Severus, for whom she developed an unhealthy attachment. In all the years I've known her, I've never seen her so insistent, so unwavering and so unreasonable in her convictions. What you saw at Severus' graveside was a mere taste of what we had to endure."

"She just missed him is all." Hagrid shrugged.

"Missed him? I'll say. She interfered with the work crews during the day and conducted lengthy investigations at night, solo excursions that often took her into very damaged and dangerous areas of the castle. Her drinking only made it worse. If Mr. Filch hadn't followed her that last night, she would have flung herself from the Astronomy Tower. I assure you, Miss Granger, what I did, I did for the sake of Sybill's safety and well-being," Minerva said quietly.

 _I've seen him, too_  was on the tip of Hermione's tongue, but she bit it back. McGonagall's story, almost identical to Filch's, sounded too pat, too rehearsed; if she wanted to out the lie in the alibi and help Severus, from now on, she'd have to keep her accusations to herself. She'd already said too much. "I'm sorry I upset you, Professor. It all seemed to make such perfect sense: the prophecy, the Patronus, even the potion in your locket."

"We've all had a trying day." Minerva's hand fluttered to her neck. "It'll be dark soon; you must be famished. Why don't we all go down and get something to eat? Afterward, Hagrid can help you collect your things. There's a day bed just off my quarters. Until we can find a more suitable arrangement, I'd feel better about having you here with me. Perhaps your arrival was most fortuitous after all, Hermione," she said, rising. "I've been meaning to discuss the S. P. E. W. regulations with you. While I'm proud to have Hogwarts spearheading the House Elf Rights initiative, we need to come to a better arrangement about weekend meals before the new term begins."

After making a quick stop at Mr. Filch's quarters, where they found only Mrs. Norris crunching her kibble and a pot steaming over the hearth, the three headed to the kitchen. For the next hour and a half, there was no talk of Severus or the unfortunate Sybill. Making good on her warning to "discuss" the House Elf situation, Minerva pressganged Hermione to a compromise: a rotating schedule that allowed for time off, whilst guaranteeing the presence of a smaller weekend staff.

As the day dwindled and shadows lengthened, talk turned to Hagrid's recent trip and his successful resettling of Grawp in a colony of half-breed Giants. "He jus' loves it and no one calls him Shrimpy no more 'cause he's one of the biggest ones there. There's young ones there, been abandoned you know, and they look up to him like a big brother. He's got plenty of company and he's with his own kind—I couldn't be happier for him," he said, his voice breaking. "I never couldn't'a done it without Olympe, of course. She sends her regards."

"She seems quite taken with you, Hagrid. I hope she's still not trying to woo you into taking the Care of Magical Creatures position at Beauxbatons." Minerva smiled over her tea.

"Olympe 'n' me? Why, there's....there's no—and there'll be no wooin' goin' on whatsoever," he spluttered, daubing at something caught in his beard. A sudden clap of thunder saved him from more teasing. It rattled the windows and shook the plates in their cupboards. "Looks like it's fixin' to be a nasty night," he said. "I hope Argus is under cover."

"But where's the lightning? To produce thunder that loud, the storm would have to be directly over our heads and would have produced a tremendous flash." Already out of her chair, Hermione went to one of the windows, only to find its lower casement was at eye level. Pulling herself up on tiptoes, she peered outside, where all she saw were swells of ground fog. Why was there always so much fog? "But it's perfectly calm outside—why, it's not even raining anymore!" As she turned back, all of them heard the great doors groan open, a horrible thud, and then, screaming.

Hagrid flew out of his seat. Whipping out her wand, Hermione followed, ignoring McGonagall's pleas for her to stay put. She bounded up the stairs, rushed across the cavernous Great Hall, careful to avoid looking at its ceiling, and through the high doors.

Covered in scratches and blood, clothes caked with mud, Filch crouched on all fours in the foyer. "Thieves! Thieves!" he screamed, his eyes rolling, his mouth spraying frothy spittle, "They came like smoke...I saw...I saw 'em...through the trees!

"We know. They ransacked Professor McGonagall's office earlier and stole some portraits," Hagrid said.

"Damn the paintings! The tomb's been breached! His body is missing! They took him! They took Severus!" Filch's arms gave out and he fell, face down on the floor.

 

 


	16. Cat and Mouse

**Cat and Mouse**

 

_She ran through the night in a strange wood, hair in tangles, glasses shattered. At every turn, branches slapped, thorns scratched, and roots threatened to turn her ankles. Sybill pressed on to her unknown destination, each gasp and gulp of air searing her lungs._

_She screamed for him—Severus! Severus!—each syllable bursting forth, torturous, distorted; but no matter how far or fast she ran, IT dogged her like a second shadow, an unknown and unseen monstrosity, so close, she could hear its ragged panting, feel its hot breath gusting over her back, her neck, her cheek..._

_It smelled like blood..._

_Claws dug into her shoulder, cruelly spinning her around. Flailing and shrieking, she found herself staring into the jaws of a dragon..._

_The eyes of a lover--_

Sybill startled awake. Sweat was pouring down her face and her fingers ached from clutching the sheets so tightly. She was still gasping, “No, no, don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me, Severus!”

 

Heart pounding, she sat up and let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. She was in her hospital room. Door closed, shades drawn. Slowly, as if being careful not to startle her, the lights atop the wainscoting resumed their tangerine gleam. There was no forest, no savage beast. There was only her, alone with her fear.

 

 _Severus said he loved me—loves me,_ she mentally corrected. _Why would he ever want to hurt me_? At first, her heart trilled at his name; but then a shudder ran through her as she recalled the horrid, distorted face from her nightmare, the claws, and then, the pain.

 

_If it was a nightmare..._

It was always so hard to tell! She kicked off the sheets, which were damp with sweat. Her mind, her psyche, her entire being was a cistern, forever collecting the deluge of vibrations, voices and visions that fell from the Cosmos. While the Universe was infinitely generous with its bits of unbidden information, she’d yet to find a way to distinguish sixth sense from nonsense. Which was just maddening as it was maddeningly unjust. Although a few of her predictions had come true, the divide between their original presentation and eventual manifestation was enormous, an unbridgeable chasm. The cool air stippled her arms and legs with gooseflesh. She pulled up her knees and hugged her pillow. Her great-great grandmother hadn’t had this problem and neither had her great aunt, both of whom had been blessed with an effortless ability to distinguish pap from prophecy, while she remained, for lack of a better term, Third Eye Blind. They’d gotten the gift; she’d gotten the genetic booby prize.

 

Sybill rolled out of bed, went to the washroom and splashed cold water on her face. She cleaned her glasses and put them back on, but the face that stared back at her in the mirror did little to lighten her mood. Booby prize, indeed, the only way she’d found to control her so-called “gift” was to shut herself in and shut it out: two things her relatives had never done. Both of them had surrounded themselves with family and friends, committees and charities. They belonged and were loved, yes but all that buzz and hubbub, that ceaseless bombardment of noise inside and out! How did they stand it?

 

A cool breeze stirred her hair. She hadn’t closed the bathroom window and now, saw that dusk had begun to settle beyond the barred windows. Her teeth felt fuzzy. She brushed them and rinsed with a capful of green mouthwash. It lacked a certain, welcome sting. Her hand trembled slightly when picked up the bottle. Minty flat. Of course it was.

 

A familiar hollowness opened inside her. A void with a voice all its own:

 

_Not for long..._

 

She looked outside again. No, not long at all. Night would fall, the Candyman would come and then, no terrors would invade her sleep. Buoyed by this thought, she threw on her robe and for the first time since that morning, left her room.

The walls in the corridor had turned from grey to pale yellow. Sybill padded down the hallway, careful not to smile or make any conversation beyond a single-worded greeting with those she met along the way. Thankfully, Madame Lavatska was not among them.

 

The flesh on her arms started to crawl again. Sybill rubbed them. After only one group session, she’d decided to give the old bat as wide a berth as possible. The meanness of the thought made her pause for a moment. Calling Olga an “old bat” was far too unkind; the elderly Healer was soft spoken and had projected nothing but kindness towards her. Still, something about her unnerved Sybill, nonetheless. It was the eyes, she decided. Eyes that looked _into_ rather than at a person. Held by that unnaturally pale gold gaze, even the Dark Lord himself would’ve confessed his deepest fears.

 

By now, she’d reached the T-section in the hallway. As she leaned against the wall to let a large group of patients pass, Madame Lavatska’s words came back to her.

 

_You seem quite enthralled by this Severus. So much so, the mere mention of his name exerts a measurable effect upon your demeanor. Severus and you blush; Severus sets your heart beating as fast as a field mouse’s... You say it is love...do you know what the word “thrall” means? It means control, complete dominion. Take care your little mouse is not devoured by a cat._

 

“The claws that swipe, the teeth that catch,” she said, murmuring the half-forgotten line of poetry to herself. Perhaps it had been a cat and not a dragon that had crept into her dream, turning it into something dark and terrible...and perhaps the name of that cat was Olga and not her dear, sweet Severus! Oh, if only he would come and take her far from this horrid place!

 

Uplifted by her latest insight, Sybill pushed off and continued on her way, barely noticing that the walls changed color again; paling to a creamy beige overlaid with ghostly blue patterns that moved like the shadows of leaves in the wind.

 

The smell of fresh pastry wafted out to greet her before she reached the Common Room, which also doubled as dining area. Her stomach rumbled. Forgoing what surely would have been an enjoyable lunch with Gilderoy to hide in her room, she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She quickened her pace.

 

Dinner at St. Mongo’s, which seemed to be a combination of Afternoon and High Tea, pleasantly exceeded Sybill’s expectations. Trays heaped with miniature egg and cress, cucumber, and potted meat sandwiches sat at one end of a long, lace-covered table. A group of tiered serving platters offered an assortment of scones, fruit breads and biscuits, while another featured towers of bite-sized cakes with colorful frosting. There were pots of jam, blocks of butter, and pitchers of milk and cream. Further down, covered salvers warmed by tiny flames offered roast chicken, a vegetable curry that sent up cumin and coriander scented steam each time its lid was lifted, and mashed potatoes in a sea of rich gravy. There were real linen napkins, fancy plates, gleaming cutlery, and best of all, dainty cups that filled themselves at the touch of a hand.

 

After loading her plate, Sybill headed through one of the high archways that lead to the sitting area. Not all the frosting in the world could sweeten the sight that met her eyes. Plush or straight, every chair in the room encircled a large, low table. Just what she’d been trying to avoid: another therapy session. Her heart sank.

 

“Hey, I saved you a seat, sleepyhead,” Simon called, waving to her from across the room.  She noticed he was still wearing his watch cap. As she neared, he patted the large overstuffed chair next to his and smiled but then, noticing the dismayed expression on her face, said, “Oh, don’t worry. This is just a left over from the last encounter group.”

 

Sighing with relief, she set her tray on the table.

 

“We missed you in sessions today. I hope you have not taken ill.”

 

Sybill turned to find Madame Lavatska standing behind her chair. She hadn’t seen her in the queue. Where had she come from? “Madame...I didn’t see you...No, I’m fine just still a little groggy, I guess,” she stammered.

 

“A slight side effect of your medication,” Olga said. “And while we allow our new residents a day to adjust, starting tomorrow, you will be expected to attend all meetings for the duration of your stay with us. I see you are already making new friends,” she said, her gaze flicking to Simon and then back to Sybill. “Until tomorrow, then.” Giving them both a nod, she turned and glided away.

 

Sybill watched her until she disappeared under an archway. “I don’t think I can take another session with her again,” she said, dropping into her seat with a huff. “Does she always sneak up on people like that? And did you hear what she called us— _residents_ —as if St. Mungo’s is some posh spa we’re all visiting. Why not call us by our real name: prisoners! I don’t know when or how, but I’m going to get out of here, if it’s the last thing I ever do!” She crossed her arms and glared at her plate.

 

“Don’t let her get to you. She always rattles people at first. The eyes, the voice, the intensity: she is like the ghost, going where the shadows go...knowing what only shadows know,” Simon said, mimicking Madame’s thick accent. Sybill laughed. “Hey, but don’t go out of your way to cross her, either. You know what they say about Gypsies.”

 

“ _Her?_ Really?” When he nodded, she said, “Maybe that’s it. Still, she gives me the creeps.”

 

“Aw, bugger the old bat. Eat something, you’ll feel better.”

 

Sybill’s stomach ached but she pushed the tray to him. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite. Help yourself.”

 

“Thanks.” Simon shoved a sandwich into his mouth, gobbled it down in a single bite and licked his fingers. “What you need’s a pick-me-up. I’ve got just the thing,” he whispered. “You can’t meet the Candyman on an empty stomach.” His hand disappeared in his robe, reappearing with a small bottle. He uncorked it and then, poured its amber contents into his mug of dark, beefy-smelling broth. “Bovril—with a kick,” he said, sliding it across the table. “Just like Mum used to make.”

 

Sybill looked around the room cautiously. Nearby, patients sat in small groups at other tables, while Orderlies and Attendants milled about, sipping their tea and conversing in passing. Lips smacked and forks scraped against plates. Everyone around her seemed engrossed in the meal and each other’s company. No one seemed to be watching them or cared what they were doing. She picked up the mug with both hands and took a long drink, wincing against the bitterness at first, but then, feeling the familiar sting and spreading warmth of the liquor.

 

“Hits the spot, don’t it?”

 

“Mmm.” She nodded. “When will we meet your friend?”

 

“Meet me behind the big tree at ten.” Simon grabbed another sandwich. Eating slowly this time, he watched as she drained the mug.

 

 


	17. Darkfall

# Darkfall

**Part I**

"It's worse than I imagined." Minerva, who'd finally joined them, surveyed Filch's wounds with a pained expression. "Did you get a good look at them?"

"Saw the flash...got caught in the blast." He shook his head.

"You have to alert the Ministry now," Hermione said.

"I was hoping we could avoid this but you're right, of course." Her hand fiddled with her brooch. "I'll send an Owl at first light."

"You can't wait until tomorrow!" Hermione sprang to her feet. "By then it will be too late!"

McGonagall threw her hands in the air. "What could the Aurors possibly do now? It's too dark to conduct a proper search, even by maximum wand light. Besides, the persons responsible are probably miles away from here by now. You really don't think they'd stay with a body in tow, do you?"

"They took him...they took my Severus," Filch moaned. "Gone...like smoke..." Sobbing, he leaned against Hagrid's chest.

"We'll find him, Argus, don't you fret." Hagrid patted his shoulders and then, helped him up, shooting Minerva a warning look as he did. "With all they're carryin' they can't apparate, so they couldn't'a got very far," he said, brushing the mud and leaves from Filch's coat. "They'd need a place to hide. Somewhere they knew no one else'd ever go."

Hermione scowled. Based on what she thought she knew, she wasn't ready to believe all of Filch's story and McGonagall's reluctance to take appropriate action only strengthened her convictions.

"Well, there's always the Shrieking Shack," she said. "If the tunnel's still viable, they may have hidden him there."

"Back where we found him...all alone in the dank, in the cold! All alone..." Sniffling, Filch stared glassy-eyed into the shadows.

"It's the perfect hideout! People still think it's haunted, so they won't go there, and with easy access to Hogsmeade, the robbers could hide anything there and smuggle it out at any time," Hermione said. "Please, Professor, you have to alert the Ministry, while there's still time! Tell the Aurors to go to Hogsmeade!"

"It's a good point Miss Granger...oh, but I don't know...I don't like this at all." Minerva wrung her hands.

"I'd say it's all the more reason to get the Aurors here and keep 'em here, if we have to. Whoever did this could be the same as done the Malfoys and we sure don't wanna end up like them," Hagrid said.

"No...Of course, you're right. I'll send an Owl at once. You and Hermione can take Filch back to his room and then, meet me back in my office." Gathering her skirts, she turned and swept up the stairs.

"Did what?" Hermione clutched his coat as he started away. "What happened to the Malfoys?"

"Eh? I thought you must've seen it, t'was on the front page of this morning's  _Prophet._  A bloody business it was and in their own home, too. Narcissa and Lucius are dead. One's throat slit, the other's heart torn out. Right nasty stuff. Sorry you had to hear that, Argus." He stopped to let Filch catch his breath. "Lucky Draco was off with the Parkinsons or he'd have ended up the same."

Hermione stopped, stunned by the news. "Dead?"

"There was another victim outside London. Didn't give her name. All it said was she was Muggle and had ties to Hogwarts. That narrows it down, wouldn't you say?" He snorted. "They're thinkin' it's Greyback done it and it wouldn't surprise me a bit," he said. "I can take Argus from here, why don't you go on and join the Perfesser?"

"I'll meet you there," she said, but the moment they turned a corner and disappeared from sight, Hermione slipped through the great door and into the night.

 

**Part II**

The owl carrying Minerva's urgent message flew out of the tower window. It circled the castle, testing the wind currents. The rain had stopped; the air smelled sweet. The moon struggled out from behind the clouds, tinting the snowy messenger's wings silver as it soared over the ramparts and headed for the lake.

It did not see the dark shape shoot out of the forest below, did not sense the other who only looked like one its kind approaching, until it was too late.

A fury of talons and beak collided with the white owl.

It, along with its missive, plummeted into the lake.

 

 


	18. Finders Seekers

  

# Finders Seekers

Summoning a small gleam of light, Hermione ran through the courtyard, over the stone bridge, and didn't stop to catch her breath until she'd reached the Rune Gate. Far below, at the edge of the forest, a light flickered in Hagrid's hut. To her left, down a steep slope and through a copse of fir trees was the Whomping Willow. So far away! Even if she ran like the wind, she wouldn't make it through the tunnel and back before anyone realized she was missing, and if, by chance, she caught up with the portrait thieves—thieves, plural, that's what Filch said—what then? She scowled. Why those portraits? Why would anyone want to steal one of those old things when there were priceless and much less talkative artifacts within easier reach?

She looked in the opposite direction, towards the lake. Like the tunnel, the tomb was also too long a sprint, not that she believed there'd be anything there to see but a heap of broken stones.

An unpleasant thought washed over her with the night air. There'd be nothing, unless she'd been wrong about everything and Snape  _had_ been the victim of body snatchers, thieves determined to desecrate his flesh along with his memory. Then, she remembered something Harry told her:  _Voldemort made himself corporeal again with stolen bones._  If that were true, then the portraits were just a decoy, collateral damage.

No, that was simply too ghastly! Just thinking about it made her stomach lurch. She closed her eyes and leaned against one of the damp stones. The only way to get answers was to investigate both places. To do that, she'd have travel faster.

She could, provided the Professor hadn't reset the Apparation Jinx.

There was only one way to find out. She closed her eyes, pictured the tree— _no, not the tree!_ —the stones in the clearing that sat safely outside its striking distance, and turned widdershins.

_Whee-Sploosh!_

Not far away enough.

Branches whipped with intention, slashing her face and neck. Shielding herself, Hermione pointed her wand.  _"Immo-BUH!"_  A branch slammed into her stomach, knocking her backwards. As she landed hard in the wet grass, the Willow pommeled the ground nearby, splattering her with broken branches and globs of mud. This time, luckily, she had fallen out of harm's reach. As the tree rallied for another assault, Hermione cried,  _"Immobulus!"_

The tree froze, sending down another cascade of muddy drops.

Pulling herself up, conjuring as much light as she dared from her wand, Hermione limped around it, scanning the area for clues. She'd been so sure the thieves had used the tunnel as their escape route, but if anyone had been there recently, all evidence of their passing was now lost.

After muttering a quick  _Scourgify_ , she plopped down on a rock. The spell had set her clothes to rights but her face was another matter. Blood oozed from the cuts on her cheeks and lips. Her dittany and makeup were in her bag, back in Snape's apartment. If she wanted to conceal all evidence of her outing, she'd have to move even more quickly now. An owl hooted in the forest and the wind rose, sending another shower down from the nearby trees.

 _Water...the lake..._  She sprang up. "Of course!"

She closed her eyes and vanished again, reappearing on the wooden plinth outside the boathouse.

Its door was unlocked. Entering, she saw a dozen boats stacked neatly in racks for the summer. Beyond them along the far wall, oars and coiled ropes rested on hooks. In just a few months, they would carry first year students to the castle but now, nothing seemed amiss.

Another dead end. Sighing, Hermione stepped outside. She stared out across the misty lake and then turned, her eyes following the narrow stairway that led to the castle. Only seven years before, she'd made that night passage from the platform, so excited, so full of hope. Seven years...it seemed like a lifetime ago. For the first time, she regretted her decision to return in the fall and wished that she'd never accepted the position of Head Girl.

 _Head Girl..._ she sniffed. Once, it had been all she ever wanted but she wasn't that girl anymore. How could she possibly inspire others, instill school precepts and principles in them, when a part of her felt that those were only empty words? Then, there was Professor McGonagall. Whether she'd been right or wrong in her suppositions—correction: accusations—by voicing them she had broken a trust, a bridge not even magic could rebuild.

Still, someone had summoned her here for a reason and whether that was Stokes, Snape or someone else, Hermione wasn't leaving until she found out. Waves lapped against the dock. Behind her, something splashed in the lake, startling her. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to a spot just outside the glade.

Dumbledore's vault loomed like the skull of a great beast in the moonlight. She stood beside it a moment, alone in darkness with only the plashing of the lake, the wind, and the soft crackle of water dripping from the trees all around.  _If he could see me here right now, what would he say,_ she wondered.

Leaving it and circling behind, she made her way to the entrance to Snape's tomb. Someone, probably Filch, had cut the grass recently. Wet clumps clung to the hem of her jeans and her boots, and hers were the only imprints in the soft ground. Hadn't Filch had told them the thieves had come through the woods?

When she reached the evergreen bough, she paused, unsure if she was ready to witness what lay beyond but knowing she had to. She took a deep breath and whispered, "For Severus." Pushing the branch aside, Hermione inched her way through, mindful of the slippery exposed roots, until the ground leveled and pine needles squelched beneath her feet.

Tonight, no colored orbs hovered in midair and no ghostly manifestations rose to recite riddles. Blinking back disbelief, Hermione stared at the tendrils of mist that threaded through the trees like smoke and eddied around the hulk in its center. She'd heard the explosion—they'd all heard it. They'd seen what it had done to Filch. A blast that strong should have decimated everything in its path. Legs shaking, she took a few, cautious steps inside the glade. Although the tomb's cover had been removed, propped at an angle against the side of the vault, both it and the crypt remained intact. "He lied," she said, "Filch lied."

But why had he lied? More importantly, what else had he lied about? Since her arrival, he was the one who'd been feeding her tales of ill-fated romance and attempted suicide, while acting like a man possessed—and she'd believed him! The more she thought about his actions, the more they frightened her. Had Filch gone mad? Had she? Although she'd had her share of inexplicable experiences—Snape, for one—had she really seen him or just dreamed him? Was she dreaming now? Then she remembered something Professor McGonagall said about Severus protecting his tomb from grave robbers: 'A wizard's last spell is often his most potent.' If she could believe it...she knew something was happening at Hogwarts but each time she thought she'd figured it out, it slipped away, wrapping itself in another layer of strangeness and uncertainty, enigmatic and hollow as a Matryoshka doll.

 _Hollow..._ Trelawney's frothy voice boomed in her mind.  _He is not here, he does not sleep..._

Trembling, she approached with wand raised, allowing its wan light to illuminate the vault's smooth interior. Although she hated to admit it, she could no longer ignore  _this_  truth, cold and unyielding beneath her hands, undeniable evidence. There was not a smudge, not a scrap of cloth or strand of hair inside the crypt. Severus' vault was empty.

_The moon will weep..._

Hermione's face prickled and tears stung her eyes. No, not the moon: a stupid, silly girl, mooning over her lost professor, chasing ghosts, obsessed with something that could never be, her theories and accusations as hollow as his tomb! Moaning, she pushed away from the vault. Mist swelled around her, so thick she could not see, while the ground suddenly softened, threatening to pull her in. Panicked, she pried herself free and flung herself backwards, only to whack the back of her head against a low-hanging limb. Her stomach heaved and for a moment, she could not catch her breath. A miniature constellation bloomed before her eyes, a roaring filled her ears and the forest began to spin. Pitching sideways, she fell, her scream barely a gasp.

Strong arms caught her, lifted her.

Hermione opened her eyes. Severus stared back. Blood oozed from the scratches and gouges that covered his face, wounds that looked almost black against his pale skin. "Could a ghost do this?" He pulled her close into a long kiss.

 _This can't be happening,_ she thought, her incredulity quickly drowned in darkness and desire as his tongue found hers. How many times had she imagined this moment and desperately yearning, chased it into the depths of her dreams? Her hands slid over his chest, so smooth and bare beneath his robe. 

"I need you, Hermione," he whispered. "Let me in."

 _I need you..._ Part of her knew that she should pull away but Hermione found herself suddenly incapable of any movement that did not bring her closer to him, to his kisses, trailing across the cuts on her cheek, while his tongue inscribed syllables of unspoken promise against her feverish skin. Her voice sounded like someone else's, a distant whisper in her ears, as she murmured her assent, pulling him closer, tracing and tasting his wounds, willing her magic to heal them. Somewhere, thunder grumbled, its warning bass eclipsed the moment his mouth found hers again, suckling her lower lip, each long tug producing indescribable waves of sensation within her. "I dreamed of you," she moaned, moving against him, a shadow dancer hypnotized by the strains of an invisible orchestra. "Am I still dreaming?" In the trees nearby, something yowled.

"No, I'm here," voice cracking, Severus pulled her to his chest and stroked her hair. "Hermione, I have waited so long..."

Pulling back, she looked up at him. "But...how?"

Before he could answer, the air crackled and night exploded around them.

"Get away from her! I won't miss you a second time."

Minerva stood at the far edge of the glade. "When you didn't return with Hagrid, I thought I might find you here. Believe me, Hermione, I'd hoped to spare you from this."

Severus tried to shield her but Hermione broke free and snatched up her wand. Instead of hiding behind Snape, she threw herself between him and McGonagall, screaming, "Leave him alone, Professor! You don't understand!"

"You were so close—but he's neither a haunt nor a Horcrux." Angling her wand, she began circling closer. "Tell her what you really are, Severus."

Following her movements, Snape said, "I am what I have always been."

"That's not an answer!" She stopped. "He's a _vampire_ , Hermione. Tell her what you did to the Malfoys and Petunia Dursley!"

Hermione whirled and stared up at him. " _You_  killed them?"

"He made it look like a werewolf attack," McGonagall said, behind her.

"The Malfoys put a price on my head," he spat. "As for Petunia, I can't imagine many will mourn that loss, including you, Minerva."

"As long as your actions were noble, I would have protected you. Now, I'm afraid that's for the Aurors to decide. They'll be arriving at any minute." Minerva leveled her wand at them. "Step aside, Hermione."

"No! You know how much Mr. Weasley hates Severus! If what you say is true, he'll never get a fair trial—if he lives to see a trial at all."

"There won't be any Aurors or trials, at least, not tonight." Severus reached into his robe. His hand returned, holding a small, soggy roll of parchment. He held it up, so Minerva could see.

"Bastard!" As she drew her wand back, preparing another curse, Severus burst into a colony of bats. Screeching and swooping, they flew over Hermione's head, straight for Minerva, almost knocking her off her feet before they dove into the forest and out of sight.

Hermione watched them flap away, stunned.  _Vampire, murderer..._ McGonagall's words rang inside her head.  _Was he?_  Severus hadn't denied the accusations. If anything, his oblique responses only underscored them.  _I am what I have always been_ neither justified his taking lives nor validated McGonagall's attempt on his. Whatever Severus had done or become—

_I need you, Hermione. I need you..._

His voice, echoing inside her head, the one thing she still believed, steeled her resolve. Let McGonagall take her back to the castle; let her try to lock her inside! She would find a way out, a way back to Severus. He was with her even now. She could still feel the delicious pressure of his kisses, the trills his strong body made as it moved against hers.

_Let me in..._

Hermione wanted nothing more.

While McGonagall rose, sputtering something about Hogwarts, Hermione continued to stare into the night, transfixed. Nor did she struggle when steely fingers clamped over her forearm and sent her body twisting and hurtling through space. Even here, Severus was with her.

She could still taste his blood in her mouth.

 

 


	19. The Moon's Mistress

# The Moon’s Mistress

**Part I (London)**

Unable to wait inside any longer, Sybill entered the yard by one of the exits along the side corridor. Although the rain had held off for a few hours, a tenacious fog had taken its place, transforming the exercise yard into a ghostly landscape of barely discernible silhouettes. She could feel its spreading dampness wrapping about her, its droplets beading her hair, transforming its already uncontrollable frizz into overgrown furze. She tightened her robe, suddenly grateful for its plushness and warmth.

A small mercy, compared to the way she felt. Simon's earlier gift, initially calming, had worn off too quickly, leaving in its place a gnawing ache and a case of the jitters. Where was he, anyway? He said he'd meet her. Sybill peered out across the yard, but saw only shades of grey moving beneath the diffuse yellow lamplight—only mist, not even the small crimson flare of a cigarette to denote another's presence. What if he'd forgotten? What if there was no Candyman and Simon was a drug addict who'd just made the whole thing up to get her medications? He could be a drug addict, after all. While he seemed so nice, he'd never said why he was at St. Mungo's, where he'd come from, or anything about himself, for that matter. She leaned against the covered archway, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves and feeling every bit the fool for putting so much trust in a complete stranger. Hadn't her pre-Hogwarts travels, years of living out of a carpet bag on nothing more than her family's fame taught her better than that? Still, joke or not, she didn't want to go back inside.

Sighing, Sybill picked her way over the boggy ground. By the time she'd reached the bench by the oak tree, her thin slippers were soaked and mud stained the hem of her robe. As she plopped down on the damp wood, something moved in the alley beyond the fence—something large—much too large to be a dog or cat.  _Unless I'm just imagining things again,_  she thought, although the sound of boots crunching gravel and a shape looming out of the fog soon told her she was not.

Springing off the bench, keeping it between herself and the fence, Sybill glanced back at St. Mungo's but still could see no one. Heart hammering, she turned back and whispered, "Is someone there?"

"Sybill, what luck; I was hoping I'd see you."

The voice sounded so familiar! Although its timbre lacked the velvety deepness of her dear Severus's it was undeniably male and something in its softness hinted at kindness. Making a cautious way around the edge of the bench, she took a few hesitant steps toward the fence.

Leaves rustled. "I'm sorry if I startled you—and for the lateness of the hour," he said. "But when I heard what a terrible thing Minerva did to you, I just had to come."

The words  _Minerva_ and  _terrible_  emboldened her. Joining the man at the fence, Sybill recognized him immediately. "Mr. Weasley! Oh, it's so good to see a familiar face," she said, clasping his hand through the iron bars. "I'm just so ashamed you have to see me in such an awful place!"

"It's a mad world when someone's locked away simply for telling the truth."

"You believe me!"

"Of course I do," he said, patting her hand. "I'm going to do everything I can to get you out of here. I don't care what Minerva said, I believe you—everything you said about Severus."

"Severus..." The mention of his name seemed to cast a spell over her. "Dear, sweet Severus! I can't bear the thought of him, hurt and alone, hiding in some dark corner of the castle—and I'm sure he is—hurt, I mean. Oh, Mr. Weasley, we have to find him, we have to help him," she said. Arthur nodded and started to say something, but just then, the bell began tolling the tenth hour. Dropping his hand, she stepped back and glanced wildly around.

"What's wrong?"

"You have to go, Mr. Weasley. He'll be here soon," she whispered.

"Who?"

"I came here to meet him; he has something for me. I'm afraid I'm not an ideal patient." She stifled a giggle behind her hands. "Simon calls him the Candyman."

He nodded but his gaze traveled over Sybill's shoulder. An ember flared in the gloom. "Syb, is that you?" Simon called from the fog.

"Over here," she said.

Putting a finger to his lips, Arthur stepped slowly back, merging with the fog and the night.

"I could'a sworn I just saw someone." Simon hurried past her and scanned the alley through the bars of the fence.

"It was just the fog playing tricks. Some people think it's so romantic, the fog, but I've never cared for it. All that vapor rolling and shifting..." She shivered.

"Yeah, it's thick as molasses all right," he said. "If it weren't for those lamps, you wouldn't know there was a hospital back there at all. It'd be easy to lose your bearings."

"Yes but it's more than that," she said. "Because water is the universal conduit, other things always ride in with it."

"What kind of things?"

"Images, memories, voices—too many voices..." She slipped her arm through his and they began walking toward the oak. "You know, for just a moment, I was afraid you weren't going to come."

"Not come? I wouldn't let you down, seein' it's your first time and all, but as I was coming across the yard, I heard you talking to someone. Who're you talking to?"

"Just myself. I often do it when I'm alone. A familiar sound makes it seem less empty, less frightening. I had a dream earlier and... Oh, never mind." She dropped his arm. "I'm sorry, carrying on like this, Simon. You must think I'm so silly."

"A dream? Was it one of those where you see the future?"

She shivered. "I hope not."

"This way, Syb. Watch your step." Taking her hand, he guided her around the tree's massive trunk and over its slippery roots to a secluded spot beneath its canopy. "Was your friend Severus in it?"

"Severus was! I was running to him, trying to find him but when I did, he..." The wind rose. Branches creaked in the wind and droplets, falling from leaves, crackled like flames. Moaning, Sybill hid her face in her hands and backed against the tree. "Oh, please don't ask me anymore. I can't bear to think about it!"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you." Simon went to the fence and peered through the bars.

"Dreams, you say? Don't put much stock in them myself," said a deep voice from the alley. The hedges parted and a tall, hooded figure emerged. "I prefer things I can see, things I can touch, things of this world. Things like this." Cloth rustled and glass clinked against iron.

"Careful or you'll raise the alarm," Simon whispered.

"We'll be in Hogsmeade before anyone knows she's gone," Greyback said in a low voice. Behind him, deep in the foggy shadows, something creaked. Whipping his wand from his coat, he pointed it into the darkness. "We're not alone, Simon."

"It's just a rat. Don't be so paranoid."

"Maybe..."

"Oh, please, you can't go," said Sybill.

Turning back, pocketing the wand, he said, "Well, come on then, sweetie, I can't wait all night. You want this or not?" He waggled the bottle.

"It's okay." Simon grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly towards the fence, knocking her glasses off.

"Please...if you'd just...I can't see without..." Squatting, Sybill began tamping the ground.

"Leave 'em for now," said Simon, hoisting her to her feet.

"He's right. You don't need 'em to know what this is, do you?" Greyback uncapped the small bottle and started to pass it through the fence, but just as Sybill's hand touched it, he drew back. "Simon here says you're a teacher of some sort but I don't think I caught your name, Miss," he whispered. "That's no way to conduct proper business, is it?"

"It's Sybill—Trelawney—Professor of Divination at Hogwarts—and being held here against my will," she said, her hands groping for the bottle.

"Divination, eh," he drawled.

"It's a rare gift." She nodded. "Please, if I could just have a little nip?"

"S'that like seeing the future in a crystal ball?" This time, he let her find it but waited until she was in the midst of a long swig, before he said, "That is, when you're not chucking one at someone's head."

Choking, Sybill staggered back, only to crash into Simon. "Nearly killed me, you did," he said, wrenching the bottle from her hands. "Let's see how you like it, shall we? Better still; why not call your friend, Severus? I'm sure he'd love to rescue you."

His first swipe caught Sybill against the side of her neck and sent her careening into the fence. "I know I'd like to see him. By the way, my name's Greyback, but I'll bet you already knew that."

Fingers, long and hairy, twisted hanks of her damp hair and yanked hard, bashing her head against the bars. A shower of angry stars burst behind her eyes. Moaning, Sybill flailed and kicked blindly at her attackers, only to hear a sickening crack when a heavy boot slammed into her ribs. As she doubled over, gasping, sharp teeth sank into her shoulder and clamped down, sending another searing bolt of pain through her, pain that only increased with her struggles. Claws dug deep into her arms and then, pulled sharply, wrenching her body through the narrow space between the bars. Brittle bright fireballs erupted all around her, bursting in every color of her agony. Feral jaws, finding new purchase in her skin, crunched deeper, severing sinew and vessels, while releasing their slow poison, a curse worse than death. Sybill could smell it in the blood that streamed from her neck and chest. The fetid breath of her dream, a smell so thick she could taste it—too late, she realized the meaning of her dream, the name of the monster.  _Oh, Severus, save me, save me,_ she cried out with her mind, only to feel silence's impassive reply.

Then she remembered Mr. Weasley. Was he still here, hiding and watching? Why hadn't he come to her rescue? And where were the Attendants? Surely, someone must've heard, must have seen...why was no one coming—and why, at the time she needed it most, had her own gift not only failed to shield her from harm but blinded her to its proximity? Sybill moaned.

Now hands, fisting her hips, shoved and twisted; their merciless actions made her wish for death. Damnation, not divination, was all her legacy had ever been.  _I don't want this—I've never wanted this!_ Branches tore her robe and slashed against her face, and then, she felt herself whirling into nothingness, a sickening blackness where the wind's wail was a single, protracted scream.

"Come on, get her up. Dotty bird's heavier than she looks," Greyback said.

Easing himself through the bars, setting off another ear-splitting siren burst as he did, Simon crept to Greyback's side. "I wish we could just finish her off here and have done with it. She already told us where Snape's hiding. He's all she bloody talks about," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Unless you want to hunt a vampire all by your lonesome, you'll help me. And be quick about it; they're coming out now. Unless you're gettin' cold feet," staring into the yard, Fenrir growled.

"I'm not," he said, hoisting Sybill's unconscious form over Greyback's shoulders, "but even if Hogwarts doesn't have more shield charms around it than Azkaban, these days, there's something else, Fenrir. The paper said that Malfoy's dead. How're we gonna collect our reward?"

"It's not about gold for me—not anymore." Rising, Greyback shifted his weight. "By moonrise tomorrow, it won't matter. Trust me."

"You there! Stop!" a man cried from the fog. But by the time the Attendant discovered Sybill's glasses by the fence, Greyback and Simon had disappeared, leaving only tendrils of dark smoke.

 

**Part II (Hogsmeade)**

Having never been inside the Shrieking Shack before, Simon landed on all fours in the tall trees just outside its gate, a rusted contraption made of barbed wire and rough slats that practically screamed  _Unwelcome._  Beyond it, mist and overgrown witchgrass surrounded a structure so dilapidated, it looked like an old tramp in a peaked hat hunched over a crooked walking staff. No wonder people thought the place was haunted. Although boards covered its windows and door, he thought he could see a faint glimmer of light between the slats of one of the upper windows. Already there, then...now he'd be late and Greyback would have something to say about it. Suddenly, he found that he didn't care; not because he felt guilty about his role in Sybill's capture, but because he not used to apparating _._ "They got plenty of brooms in hospital. Don't know why I had to flip through the ether like a bloody acrobat," he grumbled. Hoisting himself on a large, flat rock, he waited for the woozy-queasy feeling to pass. "Don't know why he's in such a rush; moon's not full until tomorrow night."

"I stopped asking questions a long time ago."

Simon whirled towards the stranger's voice too late, the petrifying spell hit him in the chest, knocking him senseless before he could utter a word.

Thinking he'd heard something outside, Greyback peered between the crooked slats of a second-story window. Below, nothing but low-lying fog moved in the night. "Probably got himself lost in the woods, stupid git. All the more for me then," he said, raising his near-empty bottle of firewhiskey to his lips. "Cheers, mate." After draining the bottle, he hurled it into the fireplace. Nearby, hidden behind mildewed bed curtains on a lumpy mattress, Sybill groaned. "Shut it," he snarled, advancing on her. "You'll get yours soon enough!"

Behind him, footsteps shuffled and the door creaked open. Without looking, he said, "Took you long enough, Simon! I was beginning to think you'd turned coward on me!"

"Simon sends his regrets." Wand ready, Arthur Weasley stepped into the dingy room.

Greyback had left his on the couch. As he lunged for it, a jet of hissing orange slammed him back against the window. He slid down, taking rotted curtains and broken glass with him.

"Now Fenrir—you don't mind if I call you Fenrir—that's no way to treat your new business associate. Especially one who's accommodated your need for privacy so graciously," said Weasley. Plucking up Greyback's wand, he dropped it into the pocket of his overcoat.

"I got no business with the Ministry," Greyback said, shaking splinters from his hair and staining the dusty floorboards with droplets of blood from his lacerated hands.

"Oh, but you do. It became Ministry business the moment you left London. I was there in the alley; I saw what you did, and if I'm not mistaken, you're hiding her here," Arthur said, leveling his wand at the werewolf's broad chest. "Cooperate and I'll see things go very well for you, Fenrir. Just think of it: all charges dropped, all past deeds expunged. I can do it, too. You'll be a hero. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing to yellow slits, Greyback began slowly pacing his half of the room, careful to keep the chamber's moth-eaten couch between them. Weasley watched him in silence. Finally, Greyback stopped and sniffed at him. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because now that Lucius is—regrettably—out of the picture, I'm willing to make it worth your while," Weasley said, pulling a leather purse from his breast pocket, a large bag with a drawstring tie at the top. Its contents clinked as he set it on the coffee table. "Inside, you'll find his twenty Galleons plus a little something extra; call it a token of my appreciation for a job well done—and one, as I understand, you cannot undertake all by yourself."

Greyback snorted, his gaze shifting between the bag and Weasley. Cautiously, he made his way back to the couch. A cloud of sour smelling dust puffed out around him as he plopped down on its tattered cushion. Still regarding the pouch warily, he started to reach for it, but then pulled his hand back. "What's the catch?"

"No catch at all, just a simple transaction—a trade, if you will." Sinking into a nearby chair, Arthur said, "You take the money; I'll take care of the rest. What do you say, Fenrir. Do we have a deal?" Reaching over, he jiggled the bag again but then, pulled it close to his chest. "Of course, I'll need to see her first."

"Fine, have it your way." Slowly, Greyback left the couch, rounding around its back before creeping to the curtained alcove. "Someone's come to see you, girlie," he said, tearing away the tattered curtains from their frame.

Face obscured by her matted hair, blood-soaked hair, Sybill lay curled on her side. Her feet were bare and her hospital garb was in tatters.

"Sybill? Merlin's beard," Arthur Weasley whispered, noticing how terribly long her nails had become ,and the lanugo that now covered her bare legs and arms like tawny down. When she did not answer, he moved closer, his eyes darting between her and Greyback. "Sybill, can you hear me," he said, suddenly finding his voice too loud for the little room.

Whimpering, she raised her head and pushed the pall of her hair away. When he saw her face, Arthur Weasley recoiled with a strangled scream. Her features seemed narrower, sharper, longer -- or perhaps it was just a trick of the same lanugo on her arms and legs that also covered the sides of her face, deepening the hollows of her already gaunt cheeks. The wounds from her attack had closed, leaving only a series of raised purple welts over her neck and bare chest. But it was her eyes that made Weasley shudder despite himself. Feral and gold, something in them spoke of a dark and archaic knowledge, one that superseded mortality itself. They were night eyes, hunter's eyes: the eyes of a wolf.

"Pretty, ain't she? Not a beauty, mind you—that she'll never be—but I think the moon's working her magic well enough. What's wrong, Weasley? You act like you've never seen a werewolf before. As I hear tell, there's one in your own family." Chuckling, he crossed his arms and leaned against the fireplace.

"I've never seen the change come about so quickly before," Arthur said, bristling at the insult.

"Got her at the start of the swell. She won't fully transform until tomorrow, when the moon's at its fullest, so we'll need to keep her here and quiet until then," Greyback said. Then, dropping his arms, he took a step towards Weasley. "I held up my end; now give me my money."

After Weasley tossed him the pouch, Greyback retreated to the couch. "Don't mind if I count it, do you? Not that I don't trust you, Weasley; it's just good business. You understand."

Taking a seat opposite him, Arthur nodded.

Pulling it the pouch open, he upended it, spilling its contents on the battered table, and began stacking the Galleons in small piles. Their golden color quickly faded and their surfaces softened, becoming more pliable, and then, liquid—

_Silver._

Greyback shrieked as the liquid silver soaked through his fingers, burning its way through skin and sinew. Then, entering his bloodstream, the poison traveled up his arms and into his heart, eroding him from the inside out. Riding the rising tide of his adrenaline rush, the toxin's reach was systemic in seconds. His hide melted away, leaving bloodstained bones. Waving his skeletal arms at Weasley, he howled, "You bastard! What magic is this!"

"Think of it as a parting gift," Weasley said calmly, watching as Greyback's ribs imploded in an ichorous stew. "On behalf of my son and all the others whose lives you destroyed."

The smoking opals of Greyback's eyes rolled back in his skull. His intestines, steaming and putrid, spilled over his lap and slithered wetly to the floor. The stench was unbelievable and Weasley fought the urge not to spill his own stomach contents as he raised his wand for the  _coup de grace_. " _Bombardo!"_

Greyback's skeleton shattered, spewing bones and shredded viscera across the floor. Sybill howled.

Gagging, Arthur Weasley staggered back to the bed. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Sybill—and for what I'm about to do—but I promise you, it will all be over soon and then, everything will be...will be..." The words clumped in his throat, a lie he could neither spit out nor swallow. Because it wouldn't be alright and nothing would ever be the same again. No spell in wizardom could set so many wrongs right or raise the dead. Still, he had to do it—for Fred, he told himself. Yes, Fred, and for Remus and Tonks, and poor, innocent little Teddy, who would never know his brave, wonderful parents. For Molly, his first and  _only_  love, no matter what recent circumstances had forced him to do...

Sybill moaned again, derailing his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Sybill but it has to end; you're the only one who can help me now. I promise, I'll take you back to Hogwarts—and Severus—very soon," he said, watching her intently, hoping the were-venom in her system hadn't eradicated Snape's Imperius Curse.

She lifted her head. Eyes glittering, she said, "Se...se....sever...us?"

"Yes, Severus...and when you remember this, if you remember, just think of it as a very bad dream." Tears sluicing down his ruddy cheeks, he cast a binding spell upon her, a charm that would bend that Unforgivable curse to his will.

 

 

 


	20. Reparation

# Reparation

Fire crackled in the grate. Hermione stared into the flames, still trying to process everything that had happened. After they returned to the castle, she'd expected her own punishment to take the form of an icy condemnation: a swift imprisonment in the windowless guest chamber. McGonagall did not disappoint her in this, leaving her to pass a silent and restless night from which she'd awoken feeling feverish and slightly queasy. The last time she'd seen the professor so enraged, she'd cast Severus from the Great Hall with a fiery volley. As she recalled that night, comparing it against events of the previous, she discovered an interesting similarity: on either occasion, McGonagall could have killed Severus, but she hadn't. An expert dueler by all accounts, every single one of her shots in the Great Hall had fallen short of their mark, just as last night's fire bolt had whizzed over his head.  _She can't kill him; she won't. She still believes we can help him!_

Outside a door groaned open and the charmed barrier over the door adjoining her room to the professor's disintegrated. "Come down, Hermione," she called. "It's time for brunch."

Brunch? She'd slept longer than she'd thought. Hermione pushed herself off the bed. As soon as her feet hit the floor, a wave of cold washed over her and stars bloomed before her eyes. Bracing herself against one of the bed's carved posts, she took a few deep breaths. When the dizziness finally passed, she donned a fresh sweater and jeans. Filch had retrieved her backpack from Snape's quarters before her impromptu incarceration. When she'd finished dressing, she slung it over her shoulder and made her way through the professor's chamber and down the small stair to the main gallery.

Minerva, who had just set a brunch tray on the table by the large stone fireplace, looked up as she entered the room, but before she could say anything, Hermione said, "Harry left me a spare key to Grimmauld Place. I'd forgotten it was in my pack."

"Once we've eaten, perhaps you could take it back up to your room," McGonagall said quietly, her tone as soft as the fog that pressed its nose against the mullioned windows.

"My...room?" Hermione nearly dropped the pack. "I thought you wanted me to leave."

Minerva shook her head. "I think we both know Severus would never allow it. Seeing you with him last night, the hold he had over you, frightened me more than I care to say. While he's made his feelings towards you quite clear, the ultimate motive behind his intentions still remains to be seen."

"You think he's using me?"

"I wish I knew. Whatever you might think of me, all I want to do is keep you safe. Come, sit down, have a cup of tea and something to eat. You look pale, Hermione. Do you feel unwell?"

"I'm fine, I just didn't get much sleep."

"Nor did I. Last night gave me a great deal to consider. I regret that I've withheld so much information from you, but I'm sure you understand that it was necessary to do so at the time." She indicated a seat on the divan and as Hermione moved towards it, said, "How much do you really know about Severus? How much has he told you about himself or his reason for bringing you here?"

"He needs me—my help, but he's been maddeningly unclear about the details. I can only assume it has something to do with his current state of being. If Severus, as he said, has always been...what he is...how exactly did that happen?"

"The potential for vampirism has always been in his blood." Minerva handed Hermione a cup of tea. After pouring one for herself, she settled into a nearby armchair and took a sip. Then, she said, "You see, before he met Eileen Prince, Tobias Snape had been bitten by a vampire, a fact he concealed until after he'd impregnated her."

"That means Severus is half-mortal," Hermione said.

Minerva nodded. "A  _dhampir—_ as if conceiving a child out of wedlock wasn't scandalous enough. It's hard to say which devastated Eileen more: his deception or its unwanted consequence. She was barely older than you when they married," she said, with a pointed look in Hermione's direction, "although she tried to end the pregnancy so many times, Tobias had no choice but to send her to the asylum at St. Mungo's."

"Where is Tobias now?"

"He disappeared under very mysterious circumstances, just before Severus became a student here. Eileen said he abandoned them but..." She shook her head.

"You think she killed him."

McGonagall set her cup on the table. "It wouldn't surprise me a bit. The abuses she heaped on him for being a half-human half-blood—for being born at all—make Petunia Dursley look like Mother Teresa. Not that I'm offering that as justification for his recent misdeeds, mind you."

"That's just horrid," Hermione said, overwhelmed by all she'd just learned. If anything, the professor's revelations raised more questions than they answered. "I've never heard of a dhampir before. Does one need to drink blood to survive?"

"As a rule, no; but succumbing to bloodlust even once turns a dhampir into a full-fledged vampire," Minerva said, as she buttered a slice of toast.

"Murder...the Malfoys, Petunia...It's so similar to creating a Horcrux," Hermione said. The scrape of the knife against bread set her teeth on edge.

"One only splits their soul to create a Horcrux; to become a vampire, transcend mortality, one must sacrifice it entirely. Where there is no soul, there is no conscience." McGonagall nibbled her toast.

 _No soul, no conscience..._ Hermione stared into her cup, the questions in her mind roiling like its milky clouds. If he didn't have to drink blood, what set him off? More importantly, was he capable of turning others? She'd already tasted his blood, forging a connection with him that she could still feel, one as palpable as the throb of the wounds on her wrist and the sudden chills that shivered through her body. Was she turning? Having suppressed the potential for his true nature for so long, could Severus have turned her without knowing it? Was there a way to reverse it?

"Reverse what, dear?"

The bones in Hermione's neck cracked as she looked up. "Vampirism," she said, wondering just how long she'd been mumbling to herself. "Severus wants me to help him reverse it; that's why he brought me here. Surely, there must be some form of counter-curse or spell. Vampirism is blood-borne, why couldn't one use Blood Magic to cast it out?"

"Blood Magic?" The professor dropped her toast. "While your knowledge of arcane Dark Arts continues to surprise me, Hermione, the only 'blood cures' for vampirism are decapitation or a stake through the heart."

"Then there must be a way to call his soul back: a resurrection spell," she said.

"Yes, because the  _stone_  by the same name worked so well in that regard. The restoration of a lost soul is an extremely dangerous business. You'd do well to remember the Tale of the Three Brothers." McGonagall pursed her lips.

"Extremely dangerous, but it can be done! You know a way!" Wide-eyed, Hermione leapt from her seat.

McGonagall shook her head. "I know of only one way and even if it worked, a soul is not like a dog that comes running when you whistle. There's no guarantee that Severus would ever truly be himself again."

"He's not himself now! No matter how dangerous it might be, we have to try. Severus wants us to try! He's been taking that potion to quell his bloodlust for so long, what if he turned himself too fast and the shock of it is now killing him? I watched him die once, I won't just stand by and watch him die again." Kneeling before her, Hermione said, "Please, Professor, does it matter what he comes back as, as long as he comes back mortal?"

Eyes glistening, Minerva reached out to Hermione, but her hand trembled as she stroked her cheek. "You're in love with him."

Flushing, Hermione stared up at her. "I...I...don't...maybe..."

"You have no idea what you're asking."

"Please, just tell me what I need to do," Hermione said, clasping Minerva's hand. But before she could respond, the flames in the fireplace guttered and brilliant green light flooded its inner hearth with a loud whoosh. Hermione scooted back to her seat, seconds before Arthur Weasley stepped out of the fireplace and into the room.

 


	21. Official Business

# Official Business

Nodding quickly to Hermione, Minerva rose to meet him, careful to position herself in front of the sofa. "Well, it's about time you've come, Arthur," she said, casting a nervous glance over his dirty, wrinkled robe. "Have you any news?"

"I'm so sorry, Minerva. I'd hoped to come sooner," he said, brushing the ashes from his robe. "I wanted to tell you before you read about it in this morning's  _Prophet_."

"I thought you'd have come straight here with a team of Aurors." She pulled a small linen handkerchief from her sleeve and twisted it in her hands. "I waited for you until well past midnight and then, when you still hadn't come..." She sniffed. "Such a terrible travesty—I couldn't stop thinking about it. I'll have you know, I haven't slept a wink."

"Midnight?" Arthur's head shot up. "How did you know?"

Peering around Minerva, Hermione said, "Mr. Filch told us."

"Filch told you," he said, and then repeated the phrase, while staring at her with an expression that was somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. Then, he turned to Minerva. "Filch? What in Merlin's name was he doing down there?"

"Well, visiting, I suppose. That's when he discovered them, of course. He caught them in the act, although too late to stop them. I've never seen him so distressed," Minerva said. "I hope your arrival means that you've found the persons responsible. Have you brought him back to us?"

"Brought who, where—what the devil are you talking about?"

"Why, Severus, of course," she said, daubing the corner of one eye. "Robbers ransacked his crypt last night and stole his remains. I sent you an Urgent Owl."

"I never received it," he said.

"Oh, well, now you know." As she nodded, one hand fluttered up to pat an invisible strand of hair back in place. "Please, sit. Hermione and I were just having brunch. Would you like a cup of tea or something to eat?"

"Thank you, no," he said, taking a seat next to Hermione. "The only Owl I received yesterday was from Ron. He's quite worried about you," he said to her. "You should be at home. Having been gone for so long, I'm sure your parents must have missed you terribly. What brought you back here?"

"It's a rather long story. It's quite silly, really," she said, trying her best not to laugh at what had become an all too familiar pattern of behavior. Worried? Sorry was more like it—and write? Ron never wrote anything if he could help it, especially letters: he loathed them. Their last exchange—tantrum, to put a finer point on it—had occurred just after they'd learned of the plans for Severus' memorial service. In retrospect, its timing hadn't been ideal, but Ron had taken his grief a step further: accusing her and Harry of disloyalty and threatening to withdraw his friendship if either of them paid their respects to their late professor.

"It's not silly at all. I couldn't stand the thought of you rattling about all alone in an empty house," Minerva said.

"Alone? Where are your parents?"

Something in his tone told her that he knew exactly where they were. "Australia," she said, now wondering what else Ron might have said in his letter.

"You look like you've been crying. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine. I just didn't sleep very well last night," she said, adding a silent,  _but I'm sure Ron's already told you that, too._  A sudden chill swept over her with the thought. She rubbed her arms.

"You said that you had news, Arthur. Are you going to tell us or must we guess?" Minerva collected her cup and saucer, and settled back in her seat.

"Yes...well then, I take it neither of you has seen this morning's  _Prophet_." Favoring Hermione with a long look, he pulled the folded paper from his robe. "By the way, what time would you say it was when Filch discovered Severus had gone missing?"

"His remains were stolen," Minerva said, a sudden crispness edging her tone. "We had just finished dinner but it was late, so maybe half seven or eight."

"Are you sure?"

"Reasonably so," she said. "Why? Is that significant?"

"It could be," he said.

"Hagrid was with us," Hermione said, glancing between him and Minerva. "We heard a terrible noise; we thought it was thunder, but then, Filch burst in and told us what had happened."

"I'll need to speak with both of them, of course. Rather than be the bearer of bad tidings, I'll just let you both read this. Once you do, I'm sure you'll both agree that the two events are too astonishing to be mere coincidence."

"What beggars belief is how Rita Skeeter is allowed to continue spreading such slanderous spume with her querulous quill," Minerva huffed. "Here, let me just clear this away." She picked up the brunch tray so Arthur could spread out his paper, but when she saw the headline, the pot and cups she was holding rattled:

**LOVEBIRDS REUNITED IN PLOT AND PROPHECY!**

_LONDON—Late last night, one of St. Mungo's newest and most notable patients fled hospital grounds in an astonishing breakout that has left hospital officials baffled and citizens questioning security protocols at the once-prestigious health institution._

_Shortly after ten o'clock, Sybill Trelawney, the former Hogwarts Divination professor involuntarily admitted to St. Mungo's psychiatric wing after a suicide attempt, escaped through a thin spot in the hospital exercise yard. According to an anonymous source with close ties to the Ministry of Magic, Trelawney's would-be rescuer enveloped her in a cloud of mist before the two vanished from sight. Described as a tall man in a long, dark cloak, the Seer's liberator was none other than the undead paramour Trelawney had alluded to in her most recent prophecy: rogue vampire, Severus Snape!_

_Ah, but Trelawney's predictions contained more plot than prophecy, Dear Readers, for the two lovers did not act alone! Assistance came from fellow St. Mungo's inpatient, Simon Mulciber. Seen with the disgraced Seer only moments before her disappearance, Mulciber, a former Death Eater and known associate of Snape's, attempted to abscond with the pair!_

_What diabolical deeds does this not-so-golden trio plan to unleash upon the unsuspecting world? Will an army of vampires be our adversaries in Wizarding War III? We have only Trelawney's earlier intimation: "Blood will run and the moon will weep."_

_When asked why such dangerous psychiatric clients were allowed to fraternize so freely within the wards of St. Mungo's, Olga Lavatska, the Senior Healer assigned to Trelawney's care, refused comment. Mulciber, now in custody, denies all memory of his complicity in last night's events..._

 

Beneath the story was a picture of a thin young man in a woolen watch cap. Face darkening to match it, Hermione scowled. "Coincidence? You can't possibly believe that Professor Snape is responsible."

"I am merely reiterating what has become a popular public sentiment about Severus," he said, tapping the paper with one finger. "Rita's right: it all fits."

"Right? She's vile! Snape is dead and the rest is rubbish!"

"I agree," Minerva clipped. "That's quite a piece of fiction the two of you've concocted. 'An anonymous source with close ties to the Ministry,' indeed!"

"I think Mulciber and Greyback abducted Professor Trelawney. They're probably the ones who broke into the crypt, too; they'd have had plenty of time to hide the body. Where was Mulciber apprehended?"

"Not far from St. Mungo's," Arthur said. "What makes you think he was working for Greyback?"

"Mulciber was one of Greyback's Snatchers. He was at the Malfoy's the day we were captured, the day Bellatrix Lestrange gave me this. Didn't Ron tell you?" Flinging herself back on the sofa, she pulled up her sleeve; the slur the dark witch had burned into her forearm was still visible.

"I know what you told me." He shrugged and leaned back, but his eyes never left hers. "Ron has added to your story since."

"Are you saying that Hermione is now a suspect in your misguided inquisition, Arthur?" Minerva said, stiffening.

"That depends." His hand started inside his robe but then, stopped. "Where is Severus hiding, Hermione? Where does he sleep?"

Head shaking in disbelief, she said, "He's not hiding anywhere, Mr. Weasley, he's—he's—gods, what could I have possibly done that would make you even suggest such a thing?"

"It's just something Ron said in his letter. Perhaps I misread. Anyway, he's quite worried about you."

"Is he?" Apparently, Skeeter wasn't the only one with an appetite for fiction.

"I cannot believe that you still insist upon making these specious claims. Severus is dead, Arthur _—dead—_ and poor Sybill has been kidnapped by Greyback! Oh, I can only imagine what he'll do to her—that is, if he hasn't done so already. You know what he's like." Rising, Minerva began pacing the length of the gallery.

"She's a little long in the tooth for him, don't you think? You know, I think I could fancy a cup of tea." Heaving himself off the sofa, Arthur headed for the tray that Minerva had moved to a smaller nearby table.

"How can you joke at a time like this? What do you think he will do to her, once he learns that Skeeter's claims have been nothing but codswallop? Lycanthropy would be a blessing. I can't bear to think of her being used as bait, dangled before a nonexistent—oh, I should have known no good would come of this! I should never have sent her away," moaning softly, she braced herself against the window casing.

"You see, Minerva, that's where your werewolf theory falls apart for me." Porcelain clinked and liquid sloshed. "I don't understand why Greyback would need Sybill at all."

"Surely, you can't be serious." She peered at him over the wire rims of her glasses.

Waving his cup, he said, "He has preternatural powers and superhuman strength, just like Snape, so why not hunt him himself and eliminate the middle man—well, woman in this case? Werewolf against vampire: that would be some death match, don't you think? I know I'd like to see it." After raising a mock toast, he took a loud slurp.

"Careful what you wish for," she said, turning away.

"You're awfully quiet. That's not like you at all, Hermione," he said, now returning to the couch. "Not feeling jealous of poor Sybill, are you?"

"Don't be absurd." Weasley's words still ringing in her head, Hermione crossed her arms and quit her seat for a spot nearer to the fire.

"I only mention it because Ron said that you were always a particular favorite of Professor Snape's. 'Always Outstanding,' is how he put it: outstanding in your class, outstanding in your House and recently, at least from what I've heard, out  _standing_  in a forest in the middle of the night."

Hermione stared at him, stunned, feeling his pointed glare in the pit of her stomach. She'd thought Severus had staged the robbery of his own tomb, but now, wasn't so sure. If Filch had come upon Weasley, surprising him as he was opening the crypt, it too, could explain the explosion they'd heard and the lack of damage. Then, if he'd hidden in the woods, waiting, he would have seen...everything. Mind racing, she barely heard Minerva's next words.

"Instead of leveling wild accusations and wallowing in past, petty resentments—"

"Petty?" His cheeks flushed livid purple. "If your precious Severus had used even one iota of his preternatural power on our behalf, Fred would still be alive and Molly...my wife would..." He shook his head.

Ignoring his outburst, Minerva said, "Is it true that you have Mulciber in custody or was that just another incendiary tidbit Skeeter tossed in to further fan the flame of popular public sentiment?"

"Of course it's true," he spluttered. "Not that it matters. Someone got to him before the Aurors did." Leaving his seat, he joined Hermione by the fireplace. "Say, 'Greyback,' and his eyes go glassy and he swoons. Not unlike what I've heard Sybill used to do whenever Severus' name was mentioned, eh, Hermione? By the way, I've been meaning to ask, what happened to your face? You look like you've been in a fight."

"If you must know, I was afraid to  _Apparate_  here after what happened the other night, so I decided to fly. Unfortunately, I still haven't got the hang of steering and flew straight into a tree."

"Yes, the Whomping Willow, only it was last night; right before you met Severus at his crypt."

"That is an egregious accusation, Arthur."

"Is it, Minerva? As I told you before, the only Owl I received yesterday was an Urgent one from Ron, who'd just seen something very interesting on a certain tool he still had in his possession. Care to guess what it was?"

"The Marauder's Map," Hermione said through gritted teeth. How could she have been so stupid!

"Unlike some people, it doesn't lie. He said the two of you were standing so close, your names blended together. Quite romantic, unless you know what he really is." Grabbing her jaw with his one hand, he inspected her neck for punctures by twisting her head from one side to the other. "Was he feeding on you? Is he speaking inside your head now? Tell me where he is, Hermione!"

"Stop it! You're hurting me!"

"That's enough, Arthur! Unhand her!" Minerva, who'd rushed to Hermione's aid, tugged at his sleeve. "Do not make me use my wand!"

He dropped his hand and walked back to his seat, muttering, "The map doesn't lie."

Summoning every ounce of reserve, Hermione said, "Ghosts can also appear on the map, Mr. Weasley," she said, eyes streaming. "Perhaps Ron failed to mention it." She rubbed the side of her face, certain she would still feel the divots his nails had made in her skin.

"A ghost?" he snorted. "Surely, you don't expect me to believe that?"

"I don't know what Ron thought he saw, but after Mr. Filch told us what had happened, I went out to investigate. I knew I shouldn't have gone alone and I'm sorry for any trouble I might have caused," she said, glancing at Minerva, "but I thought I might find clues that would reveal the robbers' identities. First, I went to the Whomping Willow. The Shrieking Shack seemed the most logical place to hide a body—"

"Assuming there'd been a body to hide," Weasley interrupted. "I suppose you went inside?"

Hermione shook her head. "The tree put up such a fight, it destroyed whatever footprints might have been near the entrance to the passage, so I left. When I got to the tomb, it was empty, just as Filch said, but Snape's phantom was still guarding it. And no, not the white dragon that I told you about," she said, before he could interject. "This was a full-bodied apparition. It—I mean, he materialized the moment I neared the tomb and continued to hover, even after Professor McGonagall came to collect me."

"Yes, Ron said he saw her there, too."

"Oh, well, if Ronald said so, then it must be true. No, don't say another word, Arthur. You've abused your daily quota enough as it is. I'd like you to leave now, please." She indicated the fireplace with one hand.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Minerva. I'm here on official Ministry business," he said, puffing out his chest.

"In what capacity: Head of Harassment, Spurious Speculation or Brazen Bullying? It looks like you slept in that robe." Her hand stabbed at the air again. "Get out."

"I'm not going anywhere until I speak with Argus and Hagrid. I think I'll have a look about the castle while I'm at it and at that crypt, too. I don't doubt that it's empty, seeing as it always was." He started to the door.

"I don't care where you go, as long as you leave," she said.

"Official protocol dictates that I report my findings to you." Having reached the center of the gallery, he paused for a moment to gaze at the portraits. "That's odd," he said, but then, resumed his path to the landing.

"We'll await your return on pins and needles, won't we," she said, slipping an arm around Hermione's shoulders. Still bristling, Hermione was too angry to say anything.

"Oh, that you will," he said from the doorway. "Now, I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, but if I'm to conduct a thorough investigation, I need to ensure that my efforts won't be obstructed." Turning, he brandished his wand and waved it in a wide circle over his head, conjuring a host of worrying-looking sigils and glowing runes.

"A barricade—but we've done nothing wrong!" Hermione started to him but Minerva pulled her back.

"Nor will you," he said. "My  _Obice Inexpugnas_  will see to that."

"You have to obtain a special sanction from the Wizards' Council to use that charm! This is a gross violation of Magical Freedom and...Wizard Rights," Hermione sputtered.

"It's one of the perks of my new position, one I prefer to think of as a safety precaution," he said, positioning the symbols over the door's stone lintel, down its frame and across the threshold. "Until I return, no one dead or undead, will be able to leave or enter this room." Two more swoops encircled the windows and portraits in shimmering cryptogram garlands.

"Instead of imprisoning us for the purposes of conducting a wild goose chase, you should focus your considerable energies on finding Sybill," Minerva said. "You do remember she's still missing?"

Outside, clouds swallowed the sun, plunging the room into shadow. "Looks like it's going to rain again," he said, shaking his head. "I hope it blows over before nightfall. There's going to be a full moon tonight, you know. I was rather looking forward to its rise."

"Moonrise?" Minerva paled. Her hand, as it so often did when she was flustered, flew to her brooch.

"That's hours away! Surely, you don't think that you can keep us cooped up in here that long!"

"It should give you plenty of time to think about what you've done. I've given the two of you every opportunity to cooperate. While it's still unclear whether you're lying to protect Snape or have fallen under his thrall, either way, I can't risk your interfering," he said, stepping through the door. "You've brought this on yourselves."

"Mark my words: Kingsley will hear about this," Minerva shrilled, as he slammed the door behind him. 

 


	22. The Uses of Enchantment

# The Uses of Enchantment

"He's gone completely mad." Trembling, Minerva stared at the door. 

Hermione barely heard her. "Harry gave the map to Ginny for safekeeping. She knew how strongly he felt about Severus, how I felt, I can't believe she would do something like this." She stared at the glowing sigils over the door, stunned by the betrayal.

"What's this map Arthur was going on about?" Minerva laid a hand on her arm. "Are you sure he wasn't bluffing?"

"It's called the Marauder's Map," she said, leading the professor back to the sofa. "It shows the location of everyone who's in the castle or on its grounds—well, at least those places its makers knew about when they plotted it. Harry's father and his friends made it. Now that Mr. Weasley has it, he'll use it to hunt Severus. We have to warn him!"

"As impressive as that sounds, Severus would never allow himself to be outwitted by a mere child's toy. Why, a simple cloaking spell—"

"The map is impervious to all concealment spells—well again, the ones James and his friends knew about at the time—but even someone wearing an invisibility cloak can't outsmart it. It also doesn't distinguish between the dead and the living, so ghosts and vampires appear on it, too."

"Does it track their movements?" Minerva indicated the portraits.

"Don't be ridiculous! That spell is far beyond a child's ken." Salazar sneered down from his gilt frame. "Instead of wittering on about some poorly enchanted scrap of parchment, you should be focusing all of your energies on this." Indicating the barrier, he made a sweeping gesture with one hand. "Now this,  _this_  is magic elevated to an art form. Lends the room a rather cheery glow, don't you think? Especially up here, where it's often so terribly gloomy."

Flinging herself from the sofa, Hermione stomped to the middle of the room. "I'll show you exactly what I think," she said. Whipping her wand from her sweater, she aimed its tip at the largest symbol over the door.

Throughout Weasley's visit, the portraits had kept silent. Now, some of them began whispering and exchanging furtive glances. Only Phineas Nigellus Black stopped smirking long enough to say, "I wouldn't do that if—"

_"Reducto!"_

The pronged whorl exploded. Spewing flames of blinding red and gold, it wavered over the door, the sharpened radii emanating from its spiral warping and undulating as if buffeted by an unseen current. Then, much to Hermione's utter astonishment, instead of extinguishing, the sigil began to multiply, its radii sprouting branches and tendrils that blossomed with even more extraordinary cyphers. Lengthening, they stretched out and about their neighbors, looping and entwining into the dazzling swags of a forbidding, glowing garland.

"Most helpful of you, Miss Granger. Stretching out his arms, Salazar wriggled his fingers before one of the still-flaming symbols. "Do stop before you roast us in our frames." A wave of murmurs followed his statement.

"As I was about to say before your outburst, provoking the barrier only makes it stronger."

"As much as I hate to admit it, he's right, Hermione.  _Obice Inexpugnas_ is, as its name suggests, completely unassailable."

"If cast correctly, yes," Phineas remarked dryly from his lofty perch.

"Are you saying that Mr. Weasley cast it wrong?" Hermione asked.

"I'm merely saying that charms are devilishly tricky things. In this case, one must know exactly  _where_  and  _upon whom_  he is casting his net."

"Back in my day, protective charms were the sole province of the Headmasters."

"In mine as well, Salazar, provided one was the  _true_  Headmaster, of course." Phineas nodded to him.

"I thought we'd put that particular argument to rest," Minerva said crisply.

"What you laid to rest came back to bite and in more ways than one," he said, sniggering. "My, my, the things one sees simply by hanging about."

"If you haven't anything constructive to offer, Phineas—"

"Wait, are you saying that you know how to reverse it?" Hermione asked, but her next thought squelched what small hope she might have had. Even if he did and she could, Mr. Weasley would spot her the moment she left the chamber.

"What I'm saying is that there's always more than one way out of a room."

"I need answers, not riddles." She turned away, bristling beneath his laughter.

"Giving up so soon? Pity."

"Pay no attention to him." Skirts swishing, Minerva headed to the smaller table, where she began moving cups and dishes from the brunch tray. "Two can play this tracking game. Oh, yes, this should do nicely," she said, lifting the now-empty tray to eye level. "There's a pitcher of water over there with the liquor decanters, Hermione. Please, fetch it for me."

As she did, Salazar said, "You seem to know quite a bit about this charm, Black."

"It's quite a nasty piece of work, one of my best, actually. Glad you like it."

Hermione's hand stopped over the pitcher. Her head shot up. "Yours? Then you must know how to undo it. Tell me how."

"I've told you twice already. Really, Miss Granger, one can see why you weren't sorted into Slytherin."

She headed to Minerva with the pitcher, mentally recounting his words. There was more than one way out of a room, maddeningly unhelpful that, but then, he'd also alluded to something else: a certain specificity in the casting of the charm. After handing over the pitcher, she turned to him. "Where exactly did Mr. Weasley fail when he cast the barrier?"

"He cast it over everything he saw: every obvious egress, every space he thought he knew." He smiled, waiting for this to sink in.

"Well, you can move in and out of your frame," Hermione said. "Could you get a message to Severus? Do you know where he's hiding?"

"I know where his real portrait hangs but it's not good for my pigment down there. Water and oil, you know." He shuddered.

"His real...?"

When realization didn't dawn swiftly enough in her eyes, he folded his arms and clucked. "Flooded with the dungeons, glug-glub. Are you sure you're even a witch at all?"

"But I stayed there! Are you saying that Snape's apartment and my room..." She turned to Minerva.

"I can't speak for Severus, but your room didn't exist until last night," she said, nodding.

"But the Room of Requirement was destroyed! Mr. Filch told me!"

"And you believe a Squib? You really are hopeless, Granger," Salazar scoffed. "This castle was built on a site of mystical convergence that channels ancient, powerful, and feral energies. That power suffuses its every stone. It is what shields the castle, heals it, and allows it to grow. It cannot be contained."

"The barrier doesn't recognize the room and the room doesn't appear on the map. Brilliant," Hermione said, brightening. "Of course, if Mr. Weasley's watching, he'll still see me disappear."

"In which case, he'll abandon his search and return here. Oh, I can't wait to see the look on his face when he finds you've escaped," Minerva twittered, one hand fiddling with her brooch. Then, her face darkened; her hand dropped. "What I am saying? Hermione, you're about to put yourself in terrible danger. You've seen for yourself how obsessed Arthur's become."

"You'll be watching on your map. If you see anything wrong, you can always send a message through one of the portraits." After throwing Phineas a pointed glance, she started up the stairs that led to Minerva's bedroom. "Besides, Severus will protect me."

"But you don't know where he is!" Minerva called after her.

"I don't have to," Hermione said from the upper landing. "He'll—the castle will take me to him."

After watching her go, Minerva took up the pitcher and poured a thin layer of water into the silver tray. Then, waving her wand over it, she began the incantation:

_"Aquae exsurge...Fluctus revelare..."_

As she repeated the words, the water rippled and then, surged forth, some of its waves turning to clear ice as they climbed upward, forming themselves into the castle's innumerable walls and corridors. Others, spreading outward over the edges of the tray and spilling across the table, froze into a miniature glassy topography of the grounds.

Fascinated by the spectacle, many of the former Headmasters crowded into nearby frames for a better view. "Gods, you're so easily impressed, the lot of you," Salazar sniffed, although his own eyes never left the coffee table. "Any fool can see it's empty. Why's it empty?"

"Ssshhh!" A fat witch nudged him with her elbow. "She's only just started."

Ignoring them, Minerva continued:  _Aquae exurge...Fluctus revelare...Revelare vivos et mortuos...Aquae exsurge...revelare omnia...Omne nomen..._

Slowly, pinpricks of golden light appeared. In the castle's highest tower, a cluster glowed brightly.

"Ooh, look, it's us!" The fat witch squeezed Salazar's arm.

"I could see better without a running commentary, Bathsheba," he snapped.

"I'm just saying, it's nice to be included. There's Minerva, right there—ooh, and that one must be Hermione!" She pointed to a solitary spark hovering above them all.

"Quiet, woman! She's about to go through," Phineas said.

All eyes watched Hermione's tiny light flit through Minerva's bedroom. When it reached the far wall, hoarfrost blossomed, forming a door to a room that didn't exist. After entering the guest chamber, it began pacing the length one wall and back again, as if pleading with the castle to open the path that would lead to Severus. Its glow, which was dim at best, now began flickering as it stopped at a spot where a fireplace had been the night before. As it floated there, the wall suddenly curved outward, like a pair of massive clumsy arms. Wrapping Hermione in its embrace, the wall drew back, taking her along with it, but extinguishing her spark as it did. A collective gasp filled the room.

"No, no!" Minerva rushed to the stairs. "Hermione? Hermione, answer me!" When only silence replied, she returned to the enchanted model. Sweeping her wand over the miniature Hogwarts, she began the incantation again:

" _Aquae exurge, fluctus revelare...Revelare vivos et mortuos...Aquae exsurge, revelare omnia...Revelare vivos et mortuo—_

_"Revelare Hermione!_

_"Revela—_

"I said: show me Hermione this instant!" Minerva stabbed her wand at the icy room. When nothing happened, she sank down on the sofa. "I was afraid something like this might happen," she said. "I can understand not being able to Severus—the water in the tray acts like a mirror—but Hermione—Hermione should be..." Suddenly, her face grew as ashen as the clouds outside. "Oh, I don't like this. I don't like this at all." As if in agreement, the wind moaned down the chimney.

"I'm sure it's just a minor magical hiccup; no spell is perfect. She's probably fine," Salazar said, craning his neck around Bathsheba's considerable backside. "What's Weasley up to? Have you spotted him yet?"

Minerva scowled as she scanned the floors. "That's strange. After all his bluster, I thought he'd go straight to Slytherin, the parts he could wade through, that is, but he's not in the castle at all, he's..." She stared at the speck with Weasley's name above it as it glided through the great Rune Stones. Far below them, a large spark floated motionless inside a hut at the foot of an icy slope. "It looks as though he's headed to Hagrid's," she said, but then, the Arthur-colored light, having made it halfway down the hill, veered in the opposite direction. "No, he's not, he's...I'm afraid I'm going to need a larger map." Wand in hand, she rose and headed to the end of the coffee table. A third recitation of the incantation produced a perfect replica of the Whomping Willow and beyond it, the land rolling softly towards Hogsmeade. Her confusion grew as she watched him navigate the passageway, but soon gave way to horror when he entered the Shrieking Shack.

"Well, what do you see?" Phineas, who'd made his way to Salazar's frame, called to her. "Step aside, so we can all have a look, won't you?"

A smudge near the center of the main room marked the final resting place of Fenrir Greyback. In the corner by the door, a spark bearing Sybill's name fluctuated wildly, behaving just as Hermione's did moments before her disappearance. Fists clenched, indifferent to the objections of the former Headmasters, all of whom were now jockeying for a view, she glared at the tableaux in the little room, her righteous indignation causing sections of the map to melt, releasing a ghostly vapor that wrapped its tendrils about her. No wonder Arthur had been so unconcerned about Sybill's kidnapping, in all probability having arranged it himself. She didn't know how he'd managed to engage Greyback's services or how he could live with himself in their aftermath, but as his words came back to haunt her, his ultimate intention became all too clear:  _Full moon tonight...Werewolf against vampire: that would be some death match..._  "No, worse than death," she murmured.

The Whomping Willow imploded in a slushy heap, turning the edge of the coffee table into a waterfall and raising more protests from the gallery. "What is it, Minerva?" Phineas rapped the frame, startling her back to the moment. "Did Weasley find Severus? Is he dead?"

"Not yet." Only now, after all that she had seen, she suspected Hermione shared odds in that fate.  _Not if I can help it,_  she thought grimly.

"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?" Phineas asked as she aimed the tip of her wand at the glowing barrier charm.

"Proving I'm the 'real' Headmistress.  _Hexpungio!"_ Her wand whined as it slashed through the air, neatly extinguishing every glyph and sigil. "Arthur wants a fight; I'd hate to disappoint him." Turning on her heel, she vanished with a loud pop before Black could utter another word.

 


	23. Echoes from the Dead

# Echoes from the Dead

When Hermione touched the wall and whispered what she wanted most, she expected the light blue paint beneath her hand to fade away, revealing a base of bricks or blocks, which would then reassemble into some form of entryway. In other words, what she'd seen the Room of Requirement do so many times before. Part of her actually expected to find Severus waiting for her, too.

Not this.

Stone surrounded her. Imprisoning her in a cold and unyielding embrace, it pressed against her, until she could not move and each breath became a strangled croak as rough stone scraped against her hands and face. Hermione called out to Severus with her mind, each attempt returning a dead silence that was terrifying in its enormity. They shared a connection, so why couldn't he hear her now? Where was he? Had the barrier been stronger than she'd been lead to believe? Was it preventing her from finding Severus now or was this Professor McGonagall's work? Even now, Hermione wasn't certain where or with whom her professor's true loyalty lay. Had McGonagall tricked her, trapped her in this unescapable living carapace?

 _No, not a carapace,_ she thought.  _A tomb._

And it  _was_  alive. She could feel it, strong and steady, pulsing around her like the beating of an enormous, invisible heart.

It squeezed her from all sides again, its immense weight crushing her.  _She doesn't want me to find him, she never did!_  Emboldened by the sudden burst of anger, Hermione summoned the last of her strength and pushed  _back,_ thrusting herself against the vault of solid stone.

The wall fell away. Hermione plunged through darkness, until finally hitting another smooth, hard surface.

The pile of dead leaves covering it did nothing to soften her landing.

She lay in the leaves, eyes closed, listening to their scratch and crackle as the wind swept them away. Once normal breathing resumed, Hermione scrambled to her feet.

She was standing in the middle of what appeared to be a colonnade or rotunda, whose four corridors stretched into impenetrable blackness. The white columns supporting its walkways gave off a ghostly glow in the moonlight—if it was moonlight. At its very center, encircled by carvings of climbing vines, was a much thicker column. Near its base, standing on plinths, statue men and women in long, white robes reached skyward, their clasped hands forming the center block from which carved ceiling battens arched outward. Blinking back disbelief, Hermione circled the column. Mounds of leaves covered its base, but she did not have to brush them away to know the names they concealed beneath the statues' feet. 

Until now, she'd only seen renderings of it in books.

It was the Founders' Courtyard and no one had seen it for nearly a thousand years. Only a handful of scholars actually believed in its existence; even Bathilda Bagshot had denounced it as myth in  _Hogwarts: A History._

She stopped before Salazar Slytherin's effigy, remembering what he'd said earlier about Hogwarts being built on a site of mystical convergence. Of course, Severus, knowing that, would have discovered a way to tap into those magical currents and use them to his advantage. And he'd have to protect himself because the Room of Requirement did not discriminate amongst the desires of its would-be users: between those who hunted and those who wished to remain hidden. Her experience with Professor Umbridge during her brief membership in Dumbledore's Army was testimony enough to that. How silly she'd been, thinking she'd just step through a wall and into his arms.

Into his arms...the thought sent trills through her.  _I'm here, Severus,_  she said, with her mind.  _Exactly where you wanted me to be. Please, come to me._

Another gust of wind sent a swirl of mist through the columns and into the covered rotunda. Drifting to the center of the room, it encircled the pillar. There, it began to mound, morphing into strange shapes as it grew larger and more substantial. Then, Hermione heard someone whispering from inside its opaque depths.

Starting to the cloud nearest her, she said, "Severus?"

"We do not speak his name."

The sibilant voice came not from the cloud, but directly behind her. "We?" Hermione turned.

Then, screamed.

Hovering inches away, the spirit of Rowena Ravenclaw, a horror in ruined oils, glared down at her. Darkness, seeping from her distorted eyes, trickled down her misshapen cheeks like rivulets of black blood. Reaching her chin, they mingled for a moment with the creeping smears of waxen flesh tones, before slip-slopping into slick puddles on the stones below. "Behold your lover's handiwork! See what has become of me."

"At least you still have form," shrilled another woman's voice from the ghostly cloud.

"No, he—I don't believe you," Hermione said, backing away. Cold clapped her back and she heard a rustle in the rafters, high above. As she looked up, a hail of leaves and debris pelted down.

Malicious laughter followed.

"You shouldn't have come here. Your very presence poisons our sanctuary. Already, you have become one with him—I can see it, the pale worm, wriggling beneath your skin." Rowena pointed at Hermione's wrist.

"Sanctuary? I don't know what you're talking about." Scowling, Hermione brushed dirt and leaves from her hair. "I was trying to find Severus."

"The Other is not welcome here—never speak his name again!" Rowena roared, spraying Hermione with bitter, linseed-scented spittle, while Peeves peppered her with a second barrage from above. "Leave us!"

"No, Mother. There is still time for her, yet."

An icy blast shivered through Hermione as Helena, trailing mist, flew between them. "And that's enough from you too, Master Peeves," she said, looking up. "Remember, you are only here at our invitation." As she turned to face Hermione, diamonds glinted in the coronet on her head.

"You...brought me here?"

Folding her hands primly against her waist, Helena smiled shyly and said, "As he wished."

"Who? I don't understand." Hermione stared at the grey flush that was now creeping over the Lady Helena's cheeks. Was that—was she...blushing? Deciding she didn't care one way or the other, Hermione took a step towards her. "Why am I here?"

"Her time is finished. You're a fool, if you believe otherwise," Rowena huffed.

"I believe because he believes. This way," she said.

Leaving Salazar's statue behind, Hermione followed Helena, careful to give Rowena's likeness a wide berth as she passed. As the pair made their way to Godric Gryffindor's statue, a black cloud suddenly obliterated all light in the rotunda. More ghostly whispering and tittering followed this.

Then, a gust of wind whisked away the darkness, and the moon's eerie, bluish light intensified over a spot in the corridor, illuminating a familiar form clad in grey.

Tears stinging her eyes, Hermione gasped.

"Beautiful spot isn't it, I mean, as sanctuaries go," he said, the ghost of smile playing upon his lips. "Did you know the first Sorting at Hogwarts took place here?"

Hermione shook her head, still unwilling to believe her eyes.

Gliding over to her, Fred Weasley said, "I thought it might help put things in perspective."

Racing with the Moon

Minerva reappeared inside the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, but the instant she felt solid ground beneath her feet, her heart started flip-flopping like a fish out of water and a buzzing filled her ears. While the sensations were familiar to her by now, the side effects of the potion she'd been injecting beneath her skin always came over her unexpectedly and at the most inconvenient times imaginable. However unpleasant, those feelings still were a small price to pay for ultimate protection—especially if her assumptions about Sybill were correct. She only hoped there was enough aconite in her latest mixture to repel that new appetite.

Then, she wondered: had the potion produced similar effects in Severus? Having suffered its side effects for mere weeks, she could only imagine the toll extracted when multiplied by years! Its abrupt discontinuation could be contributing to his unreasonable (to put it mildly) behavior now, though it was a pale excuse for everything he'd done since: the murders, Sybill's madness and now, manipulating Hermione.

Steadying herself against a rockier section of the tunnel's wall, she took a few deep breaths, while she waited for the palpitations to pass and for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Hermione, so resolute in her belief that Severus could be saved; that the reclamation of a soul was as simple as spinning a Time-Turner. Hermione, so young and talented and trusting— _too_  trusting—so thoroughly convinced that what she felt for Severus  _was_  love. Of course, it was not—love—and what it was made her unwilling to listen, unaware of the danger that lay ahead. Minerva rested her head against a flat stone; the cold soothed her.

Once her heart had resumed a more normal beat, Minerva squinted down the narrow passage. She hadn't set foot in it or the Shack for over two decades—the day she'd watched Dumbledore conjure the finishing touch to his then-latest secrecy scheme: the ill-tempered willow tree. So extravagant, she'd thought then, the lengths to which he'd gone; so unreasonable, his refusal to send poor Remus to an experimental Healer—even after young Severus had so easily unmasked his secret, along with his hiding place! Back then, of course, she never would have believed the deceitful web that she would soon weave would not only out-Albus Albus in its sheer grandiosity but also make her an accomplice to multiple murders!

At least Remus had never killed anyone.

She ran her hand over the wall. Time and the seasons had taken their toll: roots had broken through parts of the ceiling and walls; and frost heaves from too many winters had turned its once-smooth floor into a warped and pitted path, allowing ground water (and gods knew what else) to collect in stagnant pools. From the nearest of these rose a stench, simultaneously rank and musty: the bitter attar of long-drowned things. Nose wrinkling, she started down the tunnel, pulling herself along by using its rocky outcroppings and vines.

A few yards in, however, she realized she'd never get to the stairway at its end in time. What little light the outside entrance afforded faded after her first turn, plunging her in an earthy darkness that closed in from all sides. Unable to recall how many turns the tunnel took before it reached the entrance to the Shack's ground floor, she couldn't risk discovery by blundering about or using her wand—

If Arthur hadn't spotted her already on that map of his. Now, she wished Hermione had told her more about it—specifically,  _which_  places James Potter and his band of "Marauders" hadn't known about when they'd created it. Since Lupin had been one of his closest friends, she prayed that the spot where she now stood and the building beyond had been left uncharted for discretion's sake.

Thunder rumbled outside.

A storm would only hasten night's arrival and would not postpone the inevitable. Beyond the clouds, the moon would still rise and exert it power. Time was running out; if she had any hope of rescuing Sybill, she had to move quickly.

When another thunderclap rained dirt from above, the grey Tabby with the black marking that looked like an "M" on its forehead shook it off, disgusted.

Now stronger, more agile than her human form and able to see in the dark, Minerva navigated every twist and turn of the underground path on sure, silent paws. Reaching the landing in record time, she stopped and sniffed. Her sense of smell was keener in cat-form, too: the rank smell that had assaulted her earlier wasn't coming from standing water, as she'd first thought, but from inside the Shrieking Shack; and although it floated like a layer over other smells, her feline instinct recognized it instantly. Her hackles rose. Given the time of day, it was much stronger than she'd expected.

_Too strong..._

The thought shivered her long fur coat. Shiver quickly turned to shudder when she remembered seeing Greyback's body on her icy map, but then, to a rage so strong Minerva had to bite her own tongue to keep from howling. Even in his current state of maniacal misguided mindlessness, this was a low move for Arthur: using a heap of rotting remains to threaten poor Sybill!

He'd had left the door at the top of the landing open. Cautiously, she crept up the stairs and peered inside. A single room comprised the ground floor, one that might have had aspirations of being a kitchen in its early life, had Lupin's rages not turned it into a minefield of shredded cloth, gouged walls and claw-marked chunks of plaster. In a far corner, a tangle of twisted wires, many still attached to tarnished tuning pins, was all that remained of a once-grand piano. During their brief occupation, while apparently using every scrap of non-essential furniture for firewood, the Death Eaters nevertheless contributed to the room's vintage wreckage by using it in equal parts as a dumping ground (judging from the food wrappers, empty bottles, and small animal bones lying about), and—judging from  _another_  pervasive smell—an impromptu privy.

Picking her way over rusty nails and bits of broken glass, Minerva followed a flattened path around piles of debris until she reached another set of dusty stairs. Dingy and yellow, light bleared through the partially open door at its upper landing. Then, footsteps shuffled and a dark form moved across the crack in the door, obscuring the light. Minerva shrank back, pressing herself against the wall.

"Here, Sybill, have something to eat. You'll need your strength," Arthur said. A low growl, thick slurping and the ring of tin against wood soon followed. He crossed the doorway again. "That's a good...girl." There was a hollow pop and the sound of liquid sloshing. "Now, how about I fix you a little drink?"

This time, his footsteps receded. Keeping low, Minerva crept to the top of the stairs. The foul odor intensified as she peered through the door.

Half a skull leered back at her. It, along with shards of bone had been tossed on a heap of innards beneath the coffee table, left to marinate in the shadows and in the blood that had congealed on the floor and threadbare carpet. Tail twitching in disgust, Minerva glowered back, but a sound by the fireplace made her look up.

Back to her, Weasley busied himself with a bottle, carefully meting the firewhiskey into a tin cup. To his left in the corner concealed by the door, fabric rustled and then a voice vaguely resembling Sybill's rasped, "Muu-uuhhr...muuh-uuuhr!"

Setting the bottle on the dusty mantle, he turned to her, cup in hand, saying, "I'll top it off and you can have as much as you like, but there'll be no more bottles for you. I'm tired of sweeping up broken glass."

As he headed over to her, Minerva shot through the crack, one leap landing her behind the couch. Crouching low, cautiously, she poked her head around one side of it. But when she saw what sat in the corner by the fireplace, she knew her rescue efforts had been in vain.

A nightmare made flesh, Sybill Trelawney, naked, except for a profusion of long tawny fur, a coat matted with blood and grime, where it wasn't slicked to her unnaturally long arms and thighs, hunkered inside the bed's listing canopy atop a heap of mildewed blankets and shredded clothes. Clasping the tin camping mug with both palms, an effect that might have been comical, if not for the black claws that sprouted at the ends of her hairy fingers, she lifted it, upending its contents into her mouth. After she'd finished, as she lapped the interior with her tongue, Minerva glimpsed the extent to which other features had already transformed. Her nose had become a snout and her jaws boasted a set of the most lethal fangs that Minerva had ever seen, but both paled in comparison to her eyes, citrine and seething with merciless inner fire.

A gaze that made her back arch and hair stand on end the moment it locked with her own.

Roaring, Sybill lunged for her. Thinking he was the target, Arthur threw the cup at her and staggered back, spluttering a command normally used to bring a dog to heel. Tufted ears drooping, Sybill did not retreat into her musty bower, but cowered, whimpering at his feet.

 _The Imperius Curse,_  Minerva thought. Although heartbreaking, to see her former colleague under an Unforgivable influence, Sybill's sudden emergence from the shadows had unveiled something even more disturbing: the cause of her too-rapid conversion. Clinging to her like a second shadow, trailing wisps of purple clouds, a miniature full moon hovered over her head, bathing her face with its baleful glow.

A shadow fell over Minerva.

"Amazing what a little moonlight can do, isn't it?"

She looked up to find Arthur Weasley staring down his wand at her.

"I expected you sooner. After Hermione's sudden disappearance, I decided nightfall couldn't wait. Ron told me that  _certain_  places don't appear on the map—one in particular," he said, nodding towards the unfolded parchment on the coffee table. "Why don't we discuss it, mage to mage?" When she made no move, he jiggled the wand at her. "Please, Minerva, don't make me force you and don't underestimate me like Greyback did—you see where it got him, don't you—oh, and don't even think of trying anything heroic."

In an instant, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. "Heroic," she spat, ignoring the snarls her human transformation elicited from Sybill. A snap of Arthur's fingers sent her scuttling back to her blankets, her moon bobbing behind her like a lurid little balloon.

"That's better," he said. "Now, please remove your wand—slowly—and put it on the table."

Minerva tilted her chin at him. "No."

Expecting him to disarm her forcibly, she was surprised when he sighed, lowered his own wand and backed away; stopping only when he'd reached the opposite end of the couch.

"Then keep your hands where I can see them," he said, face flushing to his hairline. "I mean it, Minerva: no funny business."

"You're one to talk," she said, rounding on him. "You think this—destroying Sybill in your mad, misguided pursuit of Severus—"

"Finally, you admit it! You've been hiding him!"

"—will make you happy, make you a hero?"

"He's a murderer, Minerva."

"Are you any less? Is this really your idea of justice?" She gestured wildly at Sybill. Then, stepping closer, she said, "If you want to do something truly heroic, then put out the moon and send Sybill back to St. Mungo's. Let the Healers tend to her."

"Like you've 'tended' to Severus?"

"At least they can help her! The wolfsbane potion—"

"Won't cure her or wipe the scourge that is Severus Snape from the face of the earth!"

"She-vuhhr-usss," Sybill murmured.

"Yes, Sybill; you'll see your dear Severus very soon," Weasley said, never taking his eyes from McGonagall. "Why, your old friend, Professor McGonagall's come to take you to him, just as I promised."

The excited yips this produced made Minerva shudder. "What you're planning is against all that is good and noble in the eyes of wizard, man and...God," she said, although she hadn't spoken His name to another magical soul in years. When this didn't move him, she tried once more, this time appealing to his paternal instincts: "What about Hermione?"

"Oh, I already thought of that." Clasping McGonagall's hands, so she couldn't reach for her wand, he turned to the corner. "Sybill, I've just heard the most distressing news. We must find Severus at once," he said.

"Sheh-vuuhr-uhhz," she murmured, rising, horrid yellow eyes gleaming at the mention of his name. Clasping her black claws over her hairy chest, she swooned on her haunches and said his name again.

"Yes! Minerva's just told me: he's been  _unfaithful_  to you, Sybill. While you've been shut away like a prisoner at St. Mungo's, he's found himself another lover—a much younger woman. A former student of yours, too—isn't that what you told me, Minerva?"

"For the love of Merlin, Arthur," McGonagall hissed, hands tightening on his.

Jaws agape, streaming ropes of saliva, Sybill stared at them.

"And her name is—"

"She's just a child!"

"Hermione Granger!"

"Grrraaa-aaahhh!" Howling furiously, claws and fangs bared, Sybill sprang to his side.

"It's true, Sybill. He's betrayed you—abandoned you," he said, face ashen. "Minerva caught them together, just last night!"

Eyes blazing, she would have pounced on Minerva, had Weasley not blocked her path. "N-n-no, Sybill! You need to punish him!" Then, to Minerva, he said, "She can't apparate in this condition, so we'll have to walk. I'd prefer if you stayed in human form to do it, Minerva. I don't think she's fond of cats." Chuckling, he conjured a ball of light at the tip of his wand and lobbed it effortlessly through the door. Light flooded the passageway. "You'll lead and Sybill, you will follow Minerva."

"You'll never get away with this," she said.

"You're wrong; this ends tonight," he said, motioning her to the door. "Oh, and Sybill, if she tries to draw her wand, attack her."

Taller in werewolf form, eclipsing even Weasley's near six-foot height, Sybill loomed over her, snarling.

Minerva winced at miniature moon, the preternatural diadem that floated between the former professor's ears. Weasley's dark charm had almost finished wreaking its havoc. In just a short time, Sybill's features had grown longer and sharper, more canine in appearance; the fur covering her trunk and limbs, while retaining their human counterpart's tawny hue, had become thicker and glossier.

"Now, Minerva!" Weasley pushed her towards the door.

"Yes, Arthur, alright." At this rate, Sybill would completely transform before they reached the castle.

Not that Minerva intended to remain with her long enough to witness that change.

"This way, dear, follow me; we mustn't keep him waiting." Careful to avoid Snape's name, she headed down the stairs. Their wooden risers, which looked even more unstable with the addition of Weasley's light, groaned beneath Sybill's weight. "This next one's splintered in half, watch your step," she said, adding under her breath, "we wouldn't want anyone turning an ankle."

"Less chatter, more movement," Arthur called from behind her.

If it was movement he wanted—

She stepped down; wood cracked. Turning on her heel, Minerva vanished without a trace.

 


	24. Racing with the Moon

# Racing with the Moon

 

Minerva reappeared inside the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, but the instant she felt solid ground beneath her feet, her heart started flip-flopping like a fish out of water and a buzzing filled her ears. While the sensations were familiar to her by now, the side effects of the potion she’d been injecting beneath her skin always came over her unexpectedly and at the most inconvenient times imaginable. However unpleasant, those feelings still were a small price to pay for ultimate protection—especially if her assumptions about Sybill were correct. She only hoped there was enough aconite in her latest mixture to repel that new appetite.

 

Then, she wondered: had the potion produced similar effects in Severus? Having suffered its side effects for mere weeks, she could only imagine the toll extracted when multiplied by years! Its abrupt discontinuation could be contributing to his unreasonable (to put it mildly) behavior now, though it was a pale excuse for everything he’d done since: the murders, Sybill’s madness and now, manipulating Hermione.

 

Steadying herself against a rockier section of the tunnel’s wall, she took a few deep breaths, while she waited for the palpitations to pass and for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Hermione, so resolute in her belief that Severus could be saved; that the reclamation of a soul was as simple as spinning a Time-Turner. Hermione, so young and talented and trusting— _too_ trusting—so thoroughly convinced that what she felt for Severus _was_ love. Of course, it was not—love—and what it was made her unwilling to listen, unaware of the danger that lay ahead. Minerva rested her head against a flat stone; the cold soothed her.

 

Once her heart had resumed a more normal beat, Minerva squinted down the narrow passage. She hadn’t set foot in it or the Shack for over two decades—the day she’d watched Dumbledore conjure the finishing touch to his then-latest secrecy scheme: the ill-tempered willow tree. So extravagant, she’d thought then, the lengths to which he’d gone; so unreasonable, his refusal to send poor Remus to an experimental Healer—even after young Severus had so easily unmasked his secret, along with his hiding place! Back then, of course, she never would have believed the deceitful web that she would soon weave would not only out-Albus Albus in its sheer grandiosity but also make her an accomplice to multiple murders!

 

At least Remus had never killed anyone.

 

She ran her hand over the wall. Time and the seasons had taken their toll: roots had broken through parts of the ceiling and walls; and frost heaves from too many winters had turned its once-smooth floor into a warped and pitted path, allowing ground water (and gods knew what else) to collect in stagnant pools. From the nearest of these rose a stench, simultaneously rank and musty: the bitter attar of long-drowned things. Nose wrinkling, she started down the tunnel, pulling herself along by using its rocky outcroppings and vines.

 

A few yards in, however, she realized she’d never get to the stairway at its end in time. What little light the outside entrance afforded faded after her first turn, plunging her in an earthy darkness that closed in from all sides. Unable to recall how many turns the tunnel took before it reached the entrance to the Shack’s ground floor, she couldn’t risk discovery by blundering about or using her wand—

 

If Arthur hadn’t spotted her already on that map of his. Now, she wished Hermione had told her more about it—specifically, _which_ places James Potter and his band of “Marauders” hadn’t known about when they’d created it. Since Lupin had been one of his closest friends, she prayed that the spot where she now stood and the building beyond had been left uncharted for discretion’s sake.

 

Thunder rumbled outside.

 

A storm would only hasten night’s arrival and would not postpone the inevitable. Beyond the clouds, the moon would still rise and exert it power. Time was running out; if she had any hope of rescuing Sybill, she had to move quickly.

 

When another thunderclap rained dirt from above, the grey Tabby with the black marking that looked like an “M” on its forehead shook it off, disgusted.

 

Now stronger, more agile than her human form and able to see in the dark, Minerva navigated every twist and turn of the underground path on sure, silent paws. Reaching the landing in record time, she stopped and sniffed. Her sense of smell was keener in cat-form, too: the rank smell that had assaulted her earlier wasn’t coming from standing water, as she’d first thought, but from inside the Shrieking Shack; and although it floated like a layer over other smells, her feline instinct recognized it instantly. Her hackles rose. Given the time of day, it was much stronger than she’d expected.

 

_Too strong..._

 

The thought shivered her long fur coat. Shiver quickly turned to shudder when she remembered seeing Greyback’s body on her icy map, but then, to a rage so strong Minerva had to bite her own tongue to keep from howling. Even in his current state of maniacal misguided mindlessness, this was a low move for Arthur: using a heap of rotting remains to threaten poor Sybill!

 

He’d had left the door at the top of the landing open. Cautiously, she crept up the stairs and peered inside. A single room comprised the ground floor, one that might have had aspirations of being a kitchen in its early life, had Lupin’s rages not turned it into a minefield of shredded cloth, gouged walls and claw-marked chunks of plaster. In a far corner, a tangle of twisted wires, many still attached to tarnished tuning pins, was all that remained of a once-grand piano. During their brief occupation, while apparently using every scrap of non-essential furniture for firewood, the Death Eaters nevertheless contributed to the room’s vintage wreckage by using it in equal parts as a dumping ground (judging from the food wrappers, empty bottles, and small animal bones lying about), and—judging from _another_ pervasive smell—an impromptu privy.

 

Picking her way over rusty nails and bits of broken glass, Minerva followed a flattened path around piles of debris until she reached another set of dusty stairs. Dingy and yellow, light bleared through the partially open door at its upper landing. Then, footsteps shuffled and a dark form moved across the crack in the door, obscuring the light. Minerva shrank back, pressing herself against the wall.

 

“Here, Sybill, have something to eat. You’ll need your strength,” Arthur said. A low growl, thick slurping and the ring of tin against wood soon followed. He crossed the doorway again. “That’s a good...girl.” There was a hollow pop and the sound of liquid sloshing. “Now, how about I fix you a little drink?”

 

This time, his footsteps receded. Keeping low, Minerva crept to the top of the stairs. The foul odor intensified as she peered through the door.

 

Half a skull leered back at her. It, along with shards of bone had been tossed on a heap of innards beneath the coffee table, left to marinate in the shadows and in the blood that had congealed on the floor and threadbare carpet. Tail twitching in disgust, Minerva glowered back, but a sound by the fireplace made her look up.

 

Back to her, Weasley busied himself with a bottle, carefully meting the firewhiskey into a tin cup. To his left in the corner concealed by the door, fabric rustled and then a voice vaguely resembling Sybill’s rasped, “Muu-uuhhr...muuh-uuuhr!”

 

Setting the bottle on the dusty mantle, he turned to her, cup in hand, saying, “I’ll top it off and you can have as much as you like, but there’ll be no more bottles for you. I’m tired of sweeping up broken glass.”

 

As he headed over to her, Minerva shot through the crack, one leap landing her behind the couch. Crouching low, cautiously, she poked her head around one side of it. But when she saw what sat in the corner by the fireplace, she knew her rescue efforts had been in vain.

 

A nightmare made flesh, Sybill Trelawney, naked, except for a profusion of long tawny fur, a coat matted with blood and grime, where it wasn’t slicked to her unnaturally long arms and thighs, hunkered inside the bed’s listing canopy atop a heap of mildewed blankets and shredded clothes. Clasping the tin camping mug with both palms, an effect that might have been comical, if not for the black claws that sprouted at the ends of her hairy fingers, she lifted it, upending its contents into her mouth. After she’d finished, as she lapped the interior with her tongue, Minerva glimpsed the extent to which other features had already transformed. Her nose had become a snout and her jaws boasted a set of the most lethal fangs that Minerva had ever seen, but both paled in comparison to her eyes, citrine and seething with merciless inner fire.

 

A gaze that made her back arch and hair stand on end the moment it locked with her own.

 

Roaring, Sybill lunged for her. Thinking he was the target, Arthur threw the cup at her and staggered back, spluttering a command normally used to bring a dog to heel. Tufted ears drooping, Sybill did not retreat into her musty bower, but cowered, whimpering at his feet.

 

 _The Imperius Curse,_ Minerva thought. Although heartbreaking, to see her former colleague under an Unforgivable influence, Sybill’s sudden emergence from the shadows had unveiled something even more disturbing: the cause of her too-rapid conversion. Clinging to her like a second shadow, trailing wisps of purple clouds, a miniature full moon hovered over her head, bathing her face with its baleful glow.

 

A shadow fell over Minerva.

 

“Amazing what a little moonlight can do, isn’t it?”

 

She looked up to find Arthur Weasley staring down his wand at her.

 

“I expected you sooner. After Hermione’s sudden disappearance, I decided nightfall couldn’t wait. Ron told me that _certain_ places don’t appear on the map—one in particular,” he said, nodding towards the unfolded parchment on the coffee table. “Why don’t we discuss it, mage to mage?” When she made no move, he jiggled the wand at her. “Please, Minerva, don’t make me force you and don’t underestimate me like Greyback did—you see where it got him, don’t you—oh, and don’t even think of trying anything heroic.”

 

In an instant, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. “Heroic,” she spat, ignoring the snarls her human transformation elicited from Sybill. A snap of Arthur’s fingers sent her scuttling back to her blankets, her moon bobbing behind her like a lurid little balloon.

 

“That’s better,” he said. “Now, please remove your wand—slowly—and put it on the table.”

 

Minerva tilted her chin at him. “No.”

 

Expecting him to disarm her forcibly, she was surprised when he sighed, lowered his own wand and backed away; stopping only when he’d reached the opposite end of the couch.

 

“Then keep your hands where I can see them,” he said, face flushing to his hairline. “I mean it, Minerva: no funny business.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” she said, rounding on him. “You think this—destroying Sybill in your mad, misguided pursuit of Severus—”

 

“Finally, you admit it! You’ve been hiding him!”

 

“—will make you happy, make you a hero?”

 

“He’s a murderer, Minerva.”

 

“Are you any less? Is this really your idea of justice?” She gestured wildly at Sybill. Then, stepping closer, she said, “If you want to do something truly heroic, then put out the moon and send Sybill back to St. Mungo’s. Let the Healers tend to her.”

 

“Like you’ve ‘tended’ to Severus?”

 

“At least they can help her! The wolfsbane potion—”

 

“Won’t cure her or wipe the scourge that is Severus Snape from the face of the earth!”

 

“She-vuhhr-usss,” Sybill murmured.

 

“Yes, Sybill; you’ll see your dear Severus very soon,” Weasley said, never taking his eyes from McGonagall. “Why, your old friend, Professor McGonagall’s come to take you to him, just as I promised.”

 

The excited yips this produced made Minerva shudder. “What you’re planning is against all that is good and noble in the eyes of wizard, man and...God,” she said, although she hadn’t spoken His name to another magical soul in years. When this didn’t move him, she tried once more, this time appealing to his paternal instincts: “What about Hermione?”

 

“Oh, I already thought of that.” Clasping McGonagall’s hands, so she couldn’t reach for her wand, he turned to the corner. “Sybill, I’ve just heard the most distressing news. We must find Severus at once,” he said.

 

“Sheh-vuuhr-uhhz,” she murmured, rising, horrid yellow eyes gleaming at the mention of his name. Clasping her black claws over her hairy chest, she swooned on her haunches and said his name again.

 

“Yes! Minerva’s just told me: he's been _unfaithful_ to you, Sybill. While you've been shut away like a prisoner at St. Mungo's, he's found himself another lover—a much younger woman. A former student of yours, too—isn’t that what you told me, Minerva?”

 

“For the love of Merlin, Arthur,” McGonagall hissed, hands tightening on his.

 

Jaws agape, streaming ropes of saliva, Sybill stared at them.

 

“And her name is—”

 

“She’s just a child!”

 

“Hermione Granger!”

 

“Grrraaa-aaahhh!” Howling furiously, claws and fangs bared, Sybill sprang to his side.

 

“It's true, Sybill. He’s betrayed you—abandoned you,” he said, face ashen. “Minerva caught them together, just last night!”

 

Eyes blazing, she would have pounced on Minerva, had Weasley not blocked her path. “N-n-no, Sybill! You need to punish him!” Then, to Minerva, he said, “She can’t _Apparate_ in this condition, so we’ll have to walk. I’d prefer if you stayed in human form to do it, Minerva. I don’t think she’s fond of cats.” Chuckling, he conjured a ball of light at the tip of his wand and lobbed it effortlessly through the door. Light flooded the passageway. “You’ll lead and Sybill, you will follow Minerva.”

 

“You’ll never get away with this,” she said.

 

“You’re wrong; this ends tonight,” he said, motioning her to the door. “Oh, and Sybill, if she tries to draw her wand, attack her.”

 

Taller in werewolf form, eclipsing even Weasley’s near six-foot height, Sybill loomed over her, snarling.

 

Minerva winced at miniature moon, the preternatural diadem that floated between the former professor’s ears. Weasley’s dark charm had almost finished wreaking its havoc. In just a short time, Sybill’s features had grown longer and sharper, more canine in appearance; the fur covering her trunk and limbs, while retaining their human counterpart’s tawny hue, had become thicker and glossier.

 

“Now, Minerva!” Weasley pushed her towards the door.

 

“Yes, Arthur, alright.” At this rate, Sybill would completely transform before they reached the castle.

 

Not that Minerva intended to remain with her long enough to witness that change.

 

“This way, dear, follow me; we mustn’t keep him waiting.” Careful to avoid Snape’s name, she headed down the stairs. Their wooden risers, which looked even more unstable with the addition of Weasley’s light, groaned beneath Sybill’s weight. “This next one’s splintered in half, watch your step,” she said, adding under her breath, “we wouldn’t want anyone turning an ankle.”

 

“Less chatter, more movement,” Arthur called from behind her.

 

If it was movement he wanted—

 

Turning on her heel, Minerva vanished without a trace.

 


	25. The Gathering Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same disclaimer as before: just borrowing something Jo Rowling owns.

# The Gathering Storm

**Part I**

"Perspective?" Hermione's stomach knotted. The spirit approaching her was not the Fred that she remembered. His shoulders were squared, his brown eyes were dark as pits and his lips, usually curved in an impish grin, were now pursed in a grim line. She wondered why he'd brought her to the Founder's Circle—exactly  _how_  he'd done so, to put a finer point on it. She called for Severus with her mind again, only to have silence answer. Had Fred tampered with her thoughts? Was he blocking them somehow now? Ghosts, at least what she knew of them, just didn't possess that kind of power, even Peeves, who had the ability to move solid objects, couldn't have pulled something like this off, which meant that Fred, either alone or in part, must've found a way to tap into the castle's magical all-source. Her cheeks burned at the thought. What right had he or any of them to delay or intimidate her! Emboldened by rising anger, Hermione stepped up to him, mirroring his stance. "Fred, if this is your idea of a joke, I really don't have time—"

"I do. Oceans of it. It's what got me here, you know. I was so busy joking; trying to set others at ease, I didn't see what was coming until it was too late."

A shaft of moonlight pierced him, swallowing one shoulder with its glow, while infusing the rest of his transparent body with an eerie luminosity. Hermione shivered. "Fred, I'm sorry you died, I truly am, but why have you brought me here?"

"To give you what I didn't have. Call it a lesson in Future History. Remember your Sorting..."

"Yes, of course," Hermione huffed, even though it wasn't a question, "but honestly, Fred, what's that got to do with—"

"When you're only eleven, on your own for the first time and overwhelmed by the enormity of a place, you'll take comfort wherever you can find it, even if it's some silly game with a talking hat. It all seems harmless enough. Of course, it's not—harmless—it never is. Our esteemed professors neglected to tell us that—and before we could think, before we could ask, we were herded and sorted and set on a path, our House our destiny," he hissed, each word buffeting Hermione with a frigid blast.

"You don't believe that. I won't be drawn into some rubbish debate." Hermione started away, but the knot of spirits tightened around her.

"It's not rubbish," he boomed, his voice rippling the currents of mist that had been slowly undulating beneath him and sending ghostly waves across the stone floor, an unearthly tide that Hermione could feel in the soles of her feet. "Do you really think you'd be here right now, if that greasy git hadn't led you every step of the way?"

"He's not a—and he  _needs_  my help!" Hermione spluttered, struggling for purchase.

"Your help," he snorted. "Why  _yours,_  particularly? Why not McGonagall's, she's a far stronger witch—or Harry's, since he was so fond of championing Snape's so-called heroism after the fact? The Hermione I knew would have asked herself that."

"Severus fought for our future!"

"Some of us won't have one because of him!" He soared through her, his spirit riddling her flesh with a lingering cold.

Fists clenched, Hermione rounded on him. "Are you threatening me? You can't hurt me—none of you can—and if this is your idea of extracting some petty vengeance, I'm done with it, do you hear me!" Drawing her wand, she leveled it at his chest. "I mean it, Fred. Let me go!"

"Threats? Vengeance? I'm beyond all that. All I'm asking is for you to consider your path," he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. A small archway appeared where a balustrade framing the night sky had been only a moment before. Through it, Hermione could see the ruined fountain in the courtyard outside the Great Hall, smell the sweet, spring wind and hear the patter of rain against stone.

"Go home, Hermione," Fred whispered. "Find a decent bloke, fall in love, grow old—make the sacrifice we made mean something."

So close, it would be so easy: just step through and walk away... Hermione lowered her wand.

"That's a good girl," Fred said. "Just a few steps more and you'll be safe and sound. One foot in front of the other: that's all you have to do. Easy-peasy."

Easy-peasy...the coward's way always was. But where would she go? "I don't have a home," she whispered.

"Hermione?" Fred's voice in her ear, a spreading chill.

She turned to him. "No."

The portal disappeared and the floor heaved once more; the air thickened and columns swayed, but this time, she was ready. Hopping atop the otherworldly swells, she let the crest of the waves sweep her sideways, depositing her on more solid ground at the edge of the rotunda. "Did your father put you up to this? You sound just like him. You must know he's here. I'm sure he's told you how he plans to avenge your death. I suppose you think that's  _heroic_."

"My father...can't...feel me." Fred turned away.

Breaking from the ranks, Rowena wafted over to Fred. "Time will change that," she said, squeezing his arm with her ruined hand, "everything but her mind. I told you: his hold is too strong."

"She's my friend," he said.

"She's  _his_  now; don't waste your time," scoffing, Rowena glared at Hermione.

"Time's all I have," he said.

A low hum filled the air. Statues listed on their bases and the ceiling buckled with a groan, sending down another barrage of dirt and dead leaves.

"He knows she's here! We have to go!" Helena shrieked, flying to Fred's side.

"Please, Hermione, leave while you still can," he said, as Helena pulled him away. "Fangs—not a good look on you!"

At the end of one corridor, a jagged crack appeared, bathing the long walkway with an eerie green glow. Solid stone crumbled and a tall silhouette appeared inside the breakage. "Still meddlesome, even in death, Weasley," it said.

"Severus!"

This time, the ghosts made no move to stop her. Curling like smoke, each vanished in her wake. As she sprinted down the Slytherin corridor, gusts of wind screamed through the colonnade, toppling statues and columns.

Only Fred remained behind, sadly watching her run away. "That's not your home," he said, his words swallowed by the moaning wind. "I only hope you live to see it."

 

**Part II**

Hagrid and Fang were just about to tuck into their own version of tea, when Minerva apparated into the hut with a bang that set plates rattling. Fang barely raised a wrinkle, but Hagrid's jaw dropped, along with the slab of homemade bread he'd layered with pickle relish, a thick slice of ham, and an inch-thick hunk of cheddar. "Perfesser McGonagall, what in Merlin's name's the matter?" he spluttered.

"I need your help. Hogwarts is under siege."

The table overturned as he sprang to his feet. Fang looked up and whined. "Not Death Eaters, again. There can't be many of 'em left to—"

"It's Arthur Weasley." Skirts rustling, she picked her way over sapling-sized table legs and around Fang, who was now busying himself with the feast on the floor. "He's completely mad: he's kidnapped Sybill—she's a werewolf now—although kidnapping's the least of his crimes." By now, she'd reached the fireplace. Standing on tip-toes, she began rifling through various boxes and bowls that lined its mantle. "Today alone, he's used an unsanctioned barrier charm, at least one Unforgivable Curse, and a Circadian Hex."

Hagrid stared at her, gob-smacked. Finally, he said, "Arthur—our Arthur—a kidnapper and Sybill a—how?"

"Greyback. He's dead. Make that two Unforgivable Curses. All in the name of petty vengeance." She pushed a tobacco pouch and a box of matches aside. Outside, the wind picked up, lashing the windows with rain.

Floorboards groaning beneath his weight, Hagrid joined her at the hearth in less than three steps. "Vengeance?"

"No...time...to explain," she said breathlessly. "Right now, we have to get to the castle; we have to raise a barricade." One hand found a small, painted bowl; she picked it up and sniffed its contents. Nose wrinkling, she tossed it aside and continued rifling through the menagerie on the mantle. "Blast it, Hagrid, where is it?"

"Where's what? Hey, careful! That pipe belonged to me Da'," he said, as it joined the bowl on the cushion of a nearby chair. "Stop, Perfesser; please, look at me."

"Arthur's been keeping her prisoner in the Shrieking Shack. I managed to stall them—Sybill can't apparate in her condition—but only for a few minutes at best. If we don't hurry, they'll beat us to the castle!" Balancing herself by clinging tightly to the edge of the huge stone mantle, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Floo Powder. Where do you keep it, Hagrid?"

"Are you tryin' to get us both rooms in Azkaban? You know the Ministry's forbidden usin' it and they keep an awful tight eye on the Network, too." He gazed nervously to the crackling flames. "Why, if someone heard you just now, they'd send a team of Aurors before you could say—"

"Let them!" Minerva wheeled on him, sending up a grey cloud as she landed on the braided hearthrug. "I don't care if they send the Minister, himself! After being made a prisoner in my own home, I'd love to give Kingsley Shacklebolt a piece of my mind!" Lightning flared in the window beside the fireplace. "You should have seen the way Arthur treated poor Hermione—the horrid things he accused her of doing with Severus!"

"Severus? Don't tell me Arthur's still on about him," Hagrid said, as a clap of thunder shook the hut. "He really has gone off his nut."

"Not this time, I'm afraid. There's something I haven't told you, Hagrid." Turning, she sagged against the fireplaces. "Severus is hiding at Hogwarts and he really is a vampire—well, he is now—he wasn't always—it was dormant in him, the potential," she said, words tumbling forth like a torrent. She told him everything: the potion, the false funeral, what he'd done to Sybill, the Malfoys, Petunia, and finally, how he'd lured Hermione back to the castle. "I don't know why he turned but he did, too quickly for his own good, and now, something's gone wrong—horribly wrong. He's not himself." Wind moaned down the chimney, as she looked up to meet Hagrid's pained stare. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I thought by keeping his secret, I could keep him safe, but it seems I've failed. Miserably."

"It's not me you should be apologizin' to, but Argus. Have yer any idea what you put him through? He's an old man, Perfesser, older than he likes to let on, and the thought of Severus bein' dead before near killed him!" His shadow devoured her as he glowered down. Thunder rolled between them. "That business at the crypt last night, was that yer doin' or Arthur's?"

"Neither. Severus staged that to lure Hermione—"

"Elder gods! Where is she now?" Hagrid grabbed her by the shoulders, but when she told him, he dropped his hands; his face fell. "The Room of Requirement? She could be anywhere! Merlin's beard, Perfesser, why'd you let her do a fool thing like that!"

"Let her? You know how stubborn Hermione is. I'd have more success holding back the tides."

Fang looked up, sniffed and made a long, low growl, a cautionary sound, almost human in its timbre. Leaving his ham and cheese behind, he lumbered to the closed door and snuffled. His head shot up and his hackles reared, banding his neck in a stiff black ruff; he growled and then glanced back at his master. When Hagrid didn't respond, he pawed the floor and barked.

"Hush, you!" Then to Minerva, he said, "If Severus can't control his own hunger—"

"I know! But Hermione's convinced there's a way to save him. I tried to tell her the truth, but when she's not accusing me of premeditated murder, she's absolutely convinced that what's happened to him is some sort of anomalous vestigial phenomenon, a kind of leftover curse from his last encounter with Voldemort, if you will. What's worse: she actually  _believes_  that he summoned her here to  _help_  him."

"An anonymous vegetable—she means to make him human again?" When she nodded, he said, "Perfesser, we both know, there ain't but one way ter—" The howl outside stopped him.

Fang backed away from the door, whimpering.

"Please, we're running out of time!" Paling, Minerva glanced nervously at the door.

Louder this time, the howl sliced through the fog and rain.

"Sounds like they're headin' this way. Right, then." Pushing past her, Hagrid extinguished the blaze with his boot. Snatching a dented tea tin from the back of the mantle, he cocked his head towards the fireplace. "Go on, get in. You too, you dopey dog. Mind yer, I'm doin' this for Hermione's sake."

"Thank you, Hagrid. You can lecture me all you want, later." Minerva crept inside the fireplace.

Once she and Fang were safely inside its cavernous interior, Hagrid opened the tin and squeezed in, joining them.

The door exploded, peppering the room with a volley of fiery splinters that ignited stacks of loose papers, and bunches of drying herbs. In no time at all, tongues of flame licked at the curtains, climbing hungrily to the wooden beams and thatched ceiling.

"That's twice in as many years! Stop burnin' down my house!" Hagrid screamed.

Claws wide, still crowned in her enchanted pallid diadem and snarling, Sybill leapt through the broken doorway.

Arthur followed close behind. "Going somewhere? Mind if we tag along? Sybill's just dying to see Severus," he said, yanking her forward by one overlong forearm.

"All full. 'Fraid yer out of luck." Hagrid upended the canister, dumping its entire contents on the hearth. "To Hogwarts," he bellowed. As the three vanished in a rush of red smoke, Weasley and Sybill launched themselves inside the fireplace.

 

 


	26. Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All things Harry Potter remain the artistic property of Jo Rowling. I'm still just borrowing.

# Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

**Part I**

The vaulted ceiling imploded with a shudder. Its great arches crashed to the floor, bashing the toppled founders to bits and sending up thick clouds that filled the space with an acrid, suffocating grit. Meaty crackling sounds filled the air and the wind lashed her back with stony shards. Choking, eyes streaming, Hermione pushed on, struggling for purchase over buckling flagstones and piles of debris that seemed to spring up at every step to catch her feet. As she glanced at her intended destination, her heart sank. She should have reached Severus by now! Perhaps the floor did have a mind of its own. The path that should have been leading her straight to him now seemed longer than she'd thought. The fissure at its end seemed narrower and the light within bleared a cheerless grey-green. The smoke could account for the dimness, but maybe something in its noxious odor was causing hallucinations.

The sickening realization almost stopped her in her tracks. Stumbling forward, Hermione shielded her mouth and nose with one arm while crying out to him in her mind,  _Help me, Severus!_

 _You're almost here,_ his voiced purred inside her head.  _Just a few more steps and we'll be together._

 _Together._  The word caused more tears than the burning smoke. Ruined or not, the Founders' Courtyard was still a sanctuary, one even he could not breach.  _No, don't you see?_ She called to him again, _Fred and the ghosts—they've harnessed the castle's all-source and cast a jinx. The closer I try to get to you, the further you move away! I don't know how to stop it. Help me!_

 _They have no power over you, especially Weasley,_ he said, his tone edged with unmistakable bitterness.  _Hermione, just take my hand. I'm right here!_

Wanting to believe him, Hermione reached out again as she staggered through the smoke, but with each of her now-tentative steps forward, his silhouette grew smaller.  _I can't feel you, Severus,_ she said, groping for him.  _I can barely see you!_

"Enough of this borrowed trickery! I'm coming for you!"

"Severus, no!"

The instant he stepped through the fissure, sparks erupted, bursting into a sheet of impenetrable flame. Howling in disgust, he pulled back. As the fiery wall disappeared, Hermione watched him shrink into the distance, carried away as if caught on some terrible reverse treadmill that she inadvertently controlled.

_A treadmill, yes!_

That gave her an idea. She stopped, hoping that absence of motion would reverse the spell's effects, but when she looked at Severus again, he remained exactly as far from her as he'd been before.

Jets of light erupted from the fissure, each producing curses. "Blast it, they've conjured a rebounding charm," he hollered through the thickening smoke. "I can't break it!"

Tendrils of smoke closed in around her. No longer ethereal, wisps began eddying about her arms and legs with  _palpable_  intention. Her hand, now clammy, still held her wand, but Hermione knew that casting any defensive spells would just make things worse.

Wind shrieked and the floor rippled again, forcing her forward. As she sidestepped another pile of suddenly sprouting debris, the path around it brought her close to the now-open edge of the balustrade. Looking down, Hermione could not see the ground—or what rational thought dictated  _should_  have been the ground beyond the courtyard.

Then, another idea came to her. Like the last, it was one almost ridiculous in its simplicity, but she had to do something and sooner rather than later. The longer she fought against the jinx, the weaker she'd grow. Already, her head pounded, her lungs burned and every muscle in her body ached. Allowing herself one last glance at the now-tiny figure of Severus, one last hope of being with him, Hermione leapt over the broken balustrade. The ground lurched again, rising in a stony wave to block her escape. Instead of letting it bash her back into the courtyard, with the last of her strength, she grappled its rocky crest and vaulted over it into the fog.

 

**Part II**

Ash spewed across the room, disgorging three riders on the hearthstone of the Headmaster's Suite. Skidding across the floor on his stomach, Hagrid crash-landed against the coffee table, toppling both it and the remains of what might have been a very large and intricate ice sculpture, much to his chagrin and Fang's delight. Stepping daintily out behind them, Minerva turned back to the mantle and grabbed a handful of Floo Powder.

"Erhm, sorry about that, Perfesser." Hagrid righted the table, which, except for a few scratches, was still serviceable. Then, looking up at Minerva, he said, "Where we goin' now?"

" _We_  aren't going anywhere," she said.

"You think they caught our updraft?" Hagrid heaved himself to his feet and joined her at the fireplace.

"You did use a great deal of Floo Powder; there's bound to be residual, but only one way to know for certain." Arm cocked, she stared at the dark interior, waiting for the telltale crimson glow.

"Odd the Ministry had nothin' to say about our usin' it just now, innit?" He peered over her shoulder.

"I'd say Arthur's covered his tracks quite well," she said, eyes never leaving her intended target. As its stone back flushed scarlet, she motioned to him with her free hand. "Stand back, Hagrid. You and Fang might want to go over by the door. I've never done this before and I'm not sure if it will work."

Salazar, who'd taken a keen interest in the latest turn of events, said, "You might want to stand to one side yourself, Headmistress."

"Obstructing your view am I?"

"Not at all. But if I'm correct in my assumption, that's quite a force you're about to create."

"For once, he might have a point, Perfesser. C'mon Fang, you can finish that over here," he said. Snatching up the block of ice, he coaxed the Neapolitan to a safer spot in the gallery and then returned to Minerva's side.

"I'm not moving until I see the whites of Arthur's eyes," she said, grimly, one hand tightening around the Floo Powder.

The licking flames multiplied, becoming a roaring red sheet, although the howling within it almost drowned the sound of its vortex completely. Hot gusts buffeted Minerva, their sheer force threatening to knock her off her feet.

Salazar sprang from his seat. "Take hold of her, man!"

"Yes, I think you'd better, Hagrid," she said. "Here they come!"

As Hagrid's enormous hands tightened around her waist, two forms appeared within the Floo's maelstrom: one clawing frantically and the other desperately defending himself against those blows.  _She always hated Floo travel,_  Minerva thought, and while she'd never been one given to schadenfreude, she couldn't stop herself from smiling at Arthur's current misfortune. Only when he turned and made eye contact, only when she saw the depth of fury in his eyes—oh, and if looks could kill!—did she heave the handful of powder in his face and scream, "To the Dungeons!"

New flames whirled about Arthur and Sybill, obliterating them and casting them downwards rapidly with a hollow  _'Whoosh!'_

Clutching one of the fireplace's massive, carved corbels, Minerva watched, transfixed by the vacuum created by their sudden departure. Its force threatened to tear the hair from her head and her skirts from their seams; the door flew open with a bang; the walls trembled violently, setting portrait frames swinging and knocking; books toppled from their shelves and sheaves of loose paper flapped about the room like a haphazard headless flock. Shards of shattered porcelain and glass soon joined their number, filling the air with lethal shrapnel. Fang dove beneath the nearest trestle table for refuge. Several throw pillows and the coffee table now became airborne projectiles, as did the couch, which groaned and began juddering across the carpet on its stumpy, clawed feet.

"Get down!" Hagrid yanked Minerva to safety, seconds before the Floo's hungry maw sucked it down.

The flames guttered and the roaring ceased. Papers fluttered to the ground, portraits stopped creaking, and the room would have fallen into silence, except for the rain pinging against the windows and Fang's soft whimpering.

"Oh, yer alright, you big coward," Hagrid said, softly. "Oh, and you, Perfesser?"

"I'm fine, fine." Disentangling herself, Minerva sat up and straightened her spectacles.

"The Dungeons? Why, you sent 'em straight to Slytherin! Why didn't you pack 'em both off to the Ministry?" Hagrid asked as he heaved himself to his feet.

"I was afraid that would endanger too many innocent people. An interval in the Dungeons will give Arthur a chance to cool his heels. At least one of them can swim. Oh, thank you," she said, taking his hand. Rising, she shook her skirts and brushed off her sleeves. "Besides, with all the flooding, Slytherin's the absolute last place in the castle where Severus would be."

"It ain't him that worries me." Hagrid tugged at his beard.

"I know it's not an ideal plan, but it should allow just enough time to send for help and a head start on our search Hermione. Assuming she's still in the Room of Requirement will make our task that much easier." Hurrying over to her desk, she pulled a sheet of parchment, a quill and inkpot from a drawer. "Right now, I need you to go find Mr. Filch. Tell him—tell him—as much as you think he can—well, as much as he needs to know. The two of you can—"

"Needs to know? Do you hear yerself, Perfesser? Merlin's beard! If Dumbledore were here—"

"But he's not." Her nib stopped scratching. "Don't look at me like that, Hagrid," she said, looking up to meet his angry glare. "You've seen for yourself what Arthur's intentions are and I hate to think what would happen if Filch were to accidentally cross paths with him. Unless you fancy adding a werewolf caretaker to your cadre of magical creatures, Filch needs to know about  _Sybill_  for his own safety—and don't worry, the Room will let him in, provided he's with another wizard. I don't know how well that map of Arthur's will work when it's sopping wet, but once we're inside, we won't appear on it in any case, which works all the more to our advantage. I'll join you both after I've sent this Urgent Owl." The quill bobbed as she resumed her writing.

"S'pose you know best, but I still don't like it," he said. "C'mon Fang, let's get on with it." He trudged to the door, grumbling to himself.

Once he'd gone, Minerva carefully folded the parchment and went to the window. Night was falling as fast as the rain and fog obscured the grounds. Taking her wand from her sleeve, she rapped three times on the glass with its tip and then opened the window. A small owl whose feathers matched color of the dusky sky flew through the opening. Alighting on the wide sill, it snapped up the square of parchment in its beak and then waited, regarding Minerva with its bright yellow eyes. Leaning in, she whispered a single name.

A name that was  _not_  Kingsley Shacklebolt.

The owl nodded, as if seeming to understand, and then turning, swooped off into the night.

 

**Part III**

Hermione landed with a splash, waist-deep in a pitch-blackness whose chill assaulted her with an unwanted host of dank odors: rotting parchment, wet wool, mold and mildew. Overlaying these, riding the waves that slip-sloshed against the unseen walls of wherever she'd landed, was another smell, although this one was far more pleasant and oddly familiar. She felt it curling beneath her nostrils, teasing her with warm hints of amber and cloves, earthy and comforting, yet esoteric as incense.

It intensified, awakening visions of a letter in her hand and the folds of robes forgotten in armoire in an empty room. It was his smell and a part of her knew that he was near her now, so near. "Severus," she whispered. "Are you here?"

Strong arms encircled her, lifting her, pulling her close. "Good thing you jumped when you did. For a moment, I thought I was going to lose you," he said.

"For a moment, I thought so too," she said, nuzzling against him. "Where are we, anyway?"

 


	27. Death and the Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Harry Potter characters in this fan fiction remain the artistic property of the estimable J. K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun.

# Death and the Maiden

The waters receded with a rush and a host of candles winked on, bathing the room in soft gold. In the fireplace, flames whooshed to life, snapping and crackling over once-drowned logs. Shivering, Hermione found herself standing in a room that looked exactly like the one in which she'd spent her first night in the castle: same lumpy green couch and sagging chairs, same wall-to-wall bookshelves, same threadbare carpet.

 _Almost identical._  "Your portrait," she gasped. Hanging above its mantle, the room's only piece of artwork was now a black rectangle in a gilt frame. Her feet made squelching sounds as she went over to the fireplace.

"A definite improvement, wouldn't you say?" Severus said, watching as she ran a hand over its frame. His lips curved into a wry smile when she tentatively probed what should have been an expanse of flat, black canvas and her fingertips disappeared in its unknown depths.

"It's so cold!" She pulled her hand back and turned to him.

"I hadn't noticed," he said, flashing her a toothy grin. "Why did you seek out the ghosts?"

"I didn't. They waylaid me when I tried to use the Room of Requirement to find you." Thanks to them, holes and slashes now riddled her favorite sweater. Shivering again, she rubbed her arms and winced. Her hands came away red. It wasn't a great deal of blood, but the sight and then the smell of it stirred something inside her. Not the dizziness she'd felt earlier that morning, but another sensation, a pull she could feel in the pit of her stomach. One glance at Severus told her its effects were manifold in him.

"You didn't need a magic room to find me. Our connection is stronger than that." He licked his lips.

"About that, Severus," she began.

"You're hurt; let me help you." He started to her.

"It's nothing, really. I'll be fine." She backed away, wiping her hands on her wet jeans.

"What's wrong?"

When he took a tentative step towards her, she retreated, careful to keep the couch between them. "Nothing's wrong, I—I..."

"I would never hurt you, Hermione."

"I know..." But she inched away from him again, her backward progress now bringing her up against the side of a sopping wet armchair.

"What have I done to make you so afraid of me?"

 _It's what I think you're about to do that frightens me,_  she wanted to say. And she was afraid. For the first time, alone with him, Hermione began to fear for her safety. Up until now, she'd assumed his intentions were honorable, but she'd assumed so many other things, and everything McGonagall had told her about him earlier only contradicted what she thought she knew. While he'd never hurt her before and part of her wanted to believe he wouldn't now, another part of her couldn't ignore how strongly blood affected him.  _Her blood._  What if he couldn't control his hunger? No one, not even the professor, knew where she was. "I thought about you when I jumped," she said, desperate for something to say. "I knew the Room would take me to you, but is this really where you've been all this time?"

"What is the First Rule of Concealment, Miss Granger?" he asked, affecting a professorial tone. "Hide in plain sight. I thought the flooding was rather ingenious." Dark eyes glinting, he reached for her.

"Are you mad? We can't stay here! This is the first place he'll look, and he's  _here_ , Severus, somewhere in the castle—Arthur Weasley," she said, breathlessly. "I escaped through the Room of Requirement to warn you after he locked me in McGonagall's quarters. I tried to tell him that I was here to help you by convincing him that there's a way to turn you back, to call your soul back with blood magic, but he wouldn't listen."

"Blood magic?" Severus stared at her.

"It's a theory I had—well, one of many, actually—but I think it might still work. All we have to do is find the right spell."

He shook his head. "There is no spell, Hermione."

"But you sent the Owl! You wanted my help! That is why you called me back, isn't it?"

"No. No. Listen to me," he said, drawing out each word as he cupped her flushed cheeks and looked searchingly into her eyes. "I've spent a lifetime hiding who and what I am, subverting my true nature, drowning it in a foul potion out of shame, fearful of its power. Now that I have become the very thing I once feared, there is no going back. Do you understand?"

"But he'll kill you," Hermione whimpered, eyes clouding. "Please, Severus, we have to hide!"

"I'm already dead." He took her hand and pressed it against his chest, allowing her to feel the silence inside his heart.

"But...you sent...the Owl," she echoed, still struggling to comprehend the gravity of his words. "You wanted...me?"

"The only thing I have left to fear is a world without you in it."

Any objection she might have had was silenced the moment his lips found hers, eclipsed by her racing heartbeat when he pulled her close.

"Hermione," he said huskily, trailing kisses across her cheek and down her neck, reopening new and old wounds. Inhaling deeply, as if savoring a sweet perfume, Severus said, "I need you," he said, "I need..."

He sank his teeth into her neck.

Her wand fell to the floor, forgotten. The sudden stab and burn made her cry out, but the pain did not last. Though her mind railed to push him away, Hermione's body did exactly the opposite: she flung her head back and drew him close, holding him fast against the throbbing vein at her neck. Each, long tug of his fangs, draining her of every drop of conscious will and reason, sent trills of desire through her. The candles faded, the room began to spin, and darkness eclipsed her.

Dimly she became aware of movement. Opening her eyes, she found herself in his arms, drifting towards the bedroom door.  _No,_ she thought,  _we can't...He has...he has a..._

"Shh...We're perfectly safe here. I will never let him hurt you," he whispered, setting her down on his bed. "No more hiding."

"But he's seen..." Seen what? The thought wouldn't come. She shook her head.

"Oh, Hermione, we've already waited too long."

Something trickled down his chest to mingle with her tears. Slowly, almost shyly, she kissed the spot. Circling it with the tip of her tongue, she savored the liquid's mineral saltiness and the low moan this elicited from Severus.  _Blood...his blood._  More surprising though, was how she found that this simple act of taking his essence inside her was oddly thrilling. A tingling sensation, strange as it was exhilarating, washed over her. With it came an ache so powerful, so unbelievable, she barely heard his robe fall away, barely felt him peel away her shredded sweater and camisole, and then pull her close, embracing her just as she had embraced her shadow lover on the shores of her dream land.

Here with her now, no longer a dream, her lover made flesh. "Is this your magic or mine?" she murmured.

He answered with a kiss, probing, searching, long, and deep. His soft lips and tongue teasing her, tasting her; his gentle hands kneading and stroking, each caress stoking the flames of another, almost unbearable need within her. Fingers tangled in the damp curtain of his hair, Hermione pulled him down.

Their bodies became a blur of lips and hands and teeth, a shuddering leviathan of shared heat, their wordless incantation summoning a spell of sacred darkness, wrought in fricatives and the fluid alchemy of conjoined flesh grinding itself to sibilant crescendo and then, blissful silence.

Outside the wind rose and rain pinged against the window. Somewhere in the storm, a dog howled. Hermione opened her eyes. Candles floated about the room, softly flickering. As she stared at the patterns they cast on the ceiling, she imagined the tower clock's tremendous cogwheels grinding ever onward. She could almost hear the swish of its pendulum, the clang of its monstrous gears. "I thought it would be different," she said.

"You thought what would be different?" Propping himself on one arm, Severus regarded her uncertainly.

"Time," she said. "I thought it stopped, but my heart's still beating."

"It almost did. Stop. In the end I...couldn't." He brushed a lock of hair from her face and kissed her cheek. "That's twice I've almost lost you today."

"Why couldn't you?" She turned to him. "It's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?"

"What I wanted..." He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and looked away.

"I didn't mean it to sound quite that way; I was merely stating a fact." Laying her hand on his shoulder she said, "What stopped you, Severus?"

"Time."

"I sorry, I don't quite follow that," she said, chuckling.

"I was born to night, my father's dark gift lying dormant in my veins. I stopped taking the potion, but even before I'd tasted my first blood, I could feel its power changing me." He rose and went to the window. "My Turning was simple but you'd have to die, murdered at my hands to be reborn to this existence, this  _Unlife_. You will never age and never die, but the price you'll pay will be as perpetual as your unnatural immortality: hated, hunted, hounded into the shadows for what you have become—for what I've  _made_  you. I couldn't do that to you; I won't do that without knowing..." He turned to her. "Is that really what you want, Hermione?"

"One might ask you the same. I mean, do you hear yourself?" She snatched his robe from the floor and threw it on as she joined him. "One minute you're declaring you've embraced your true nature; the next finds you denouncing it as the world's most unbearable burden and sounding like some self-absorbed prat from an Anne Rice movie in the process. I'm sorry, Severus, but you do! You say it's changed you, but all I see is the little boy with a secret, the Death Eater turned spy. Call it what you will, you're still leading a double life, still trying to fly two brooms with one bum. It's time to choose a broom, Severus!"

Eyes flashing, he wheeled on her. "Then what would you have me do?"

"I would have you whole again, no matter what it took."

"Whole? Human, you mean," he scoffed. "I've already told you, there is no spell in the  _whole_  of the wizarding world that can reverse vampirism, let alone restore a soul."

"And I say that's rubbish! We're also told that no one can survive the Killing Curse, yet we both know one person who did; a wizard can't change his Patronus, yet you did; and the  _Obice Inexpugnas_  Mr. Weasley cast was supposed to prevent me from leaving McGonagall's quarters, yet here I stand. Shall I go on? No matter how strong the charm or unbreakable the spell, there's always a way out or a way around, you just have to  _look_ for it!"

"You don't think I've looked?" he said with a hiss. "Through that door, you'll find the largest Dark Arts collection in the entire world; on those shelves lies over a millennia's worth of knowledge from every known culture on the globe, living or extinct. Did you think I was studying them because I like ancient runes?"

"Severus, please. Let me help you! You can't go on like this— _we_  can't go on like this!"

"You mean you won't," he said, leveling her with a gaze. "At last, I have your answer."

In the hallway, something heavy crashed.

"You can't go in there," a reedy voice shrieked.

"Get out of my way, old man!" Another, louder crash followed this and a dog barked furiously.

"It's Mr. Weasley," Hermione said, paling. "I told you he'd find us! He has the map, Severus. The Maurader's Map!"

"You might have mentioned that earlier."

"I tried, but you were too busy seducing me to listen," she harshed back.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself at the time." He snapped his fingers, summoning a pair of black trousers from the armoire.

"I thought you weren't running."

"I'm preparing to fight," he said. "You might want to close your robe."

The door burst open. Soaked to the skin, Arthur Weasley, lantern in one hand and wand in the other, charged into the sitting room.

Bruised and bloodied, but still determined, Filch followed on his heels, pummeling his back with both fists. "You will not disturb my master!" he shrilled.

"Your  _master_  be damned! Get off me!' Weasley swung the lantern over his head, clipping Filch in the forehead with sharp base. Glass shattered, spraying shards and oil, and filling the room with the stench of singed hair.

The old caretaker fell back, hitting his head on the doorframe with a sickening  _'thwack'_. His eyes rolled back in his head and then his frail body crumpled to a heap on the floor. A string of bloody spittle stretched from his slack jaw to his concave chest.

"Mr. Filch!" Hermione started to him, but Severus pulled her back.

"Is that you, Hermione?" Miniature oil fires sputtered as Weasley squish-sloshed his way to the bedroom. In the flickering candlelight, his shadow seemed to lengthen and sprout horns. "I thought I might find you here. I suppose Minerva's—" he stopped, seeing Hermione's disheveled state and the oozing punctures on her neck. "You!" he spat. "Take your filthy, undead hands off her, you monster!"

"Weasley, your incursion finds me at quite a disadvantage." Naked to the waist, Snape stepped out from behind Hermione. "I'm not dressed for a duel."

"Fine enough for your funeral though. This time, it  _will_  be permanent." Weasley thrust his wand at Snape, but before he could utter the curse, Hermione leapt between them.

"Please, Mr. Weasley, if you'd just listen—Severus isn't a monster, he's—"

"A murderer: a stone-cold predator!" Weasley jockeyed from side to side trying to get a clear shot at Snape. "And now that he's had his way with you, you'll end up just like Narcissa and Petunia—that is, if a stake in the chest doesn't find you first!"

"What I've done or haven't done with Severus is none of your business," she said, through gritted teeth. "And I'm not a vampire." Outside the door, glass rattled. Shouts and yelps followed.

"Then come with me," Arthur said, beckoning her with his non-fighting hand. "Despite everything that's happened, I am still willing to argue for leniency in your case."

Arms outstretched, Hermione backed into Snape. "Leniency?"

"While I believe you are obviously under Snape's thrall, rendered incapable of even the simplest thought or conscious action, obstructing his apprehension tonight—"

"Apprehension?" She spluttered. "Is that what you're calling murder nowadays?"

"—still makes you his accomplice in the eyes of the law."

"And just whose law would that be," Severus asked icily. Weasley's face purpled.

Her wand was only a few feet away on the floor beneath the coffee table. Hermione flexed her hand and whispered,  _"Accio—"_

 _"Expelliarmus!"_ A flick of Weasley's wand sent Hermione's straight into the fireplace, where greedy flames devoured it in a hiss and shower of sparks. "Now, we'll have no more tricks, my girl!"

"I am beyond the reach of your Ministry of Malice," Snape drawled. "Surely, you must know that no spell can bind me and no cell can hold me. I am beyond life, beyond your laws. As for my powers of persuasion, my  _thrall_ , as you put it..." Eyes glittering, he fixed Weasley with a pointed glare. "Have a taste."

Weasley scowled at him for a moment. Then his jaw dropped, his eyes bugged, and he clapped both hands over his ears. Groaning, shaking his head, he staggered back.

"Pity your friends at the Ministry didn't brief you better, Arthur." Snape blinked, breaking his gaze. Weasley landed on his knees.

"See what he is!" he shrieked, blood trickling from one ear. "This is what you would protect?"

"You're crazy." Still shielding Severus, she said, "I won't let you hurt him." Thunder rumbled and frenzied barking resumed afresh.

"Don't you move! Steady, now...steady...Fang! You stay put," said a gruff voice from the hallway.

"Hagrid, help us," Hermione screamed.

"That's what I'm tryin' to do!" Curses, frenzied yips, and more crashes ensued.

"Crazy, am I? Perhaps you'd prefer to share in your lover's fate."

"Disarming and now threatening one you're sworn to protect? This is a new low for you, Weasley." Snape lifted Hermione into the air and glided back into the shadowy bedroom. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were Lucius Malfoy."

"You'd know all about Malfoy, seeing as you're the one who blew a hole in his chest," Weasley said, storming after the pair. "Step aside, Hermione. I mean it."

"I'm not going anywhere!"

"It seems we've reached an impasse, Weasley. Let me make this easy for you." Gently pushing Hermione to one side, he whispered, "Don't worry, I'll be fine." Then, spreading his arms wide, he said, "Go ahead, Arthur, take your best shot. At this range, even you couldn't miss."

Throwing herself at him, Hermione screamed, "Severus, no!"

 _"Confrigo!"_  A orange jet spurted from Weasley's wand, but the kickback from the assault spell caused him to stagger back. His wand flew out of his hand and the blast intended for Severus skewed sideways, hitting Hermione below the shoulder, shattering bone and spraying Snape with gouts of her blood. Eyes rolling back in her head, she slumped down against the wall, limp as a ragdoll.

"Who's the monster now?" Severus snarled. One swipe sent Weasley flying into the bookshelves, where he found himself at the mercy of a few lively volumes of arcane magic. While Weasley grappled for his wand, Snape snatched up Hermione and with her in his arms, wordlessly, sailed up and backwards, shattering the bedroom window.

"Damn you!" Weasley kicked the last of the biting magic books away and ran to the window, but his successive volleys fell on dead air. Snape and Hermione had already vanished. Sybill, fur matted and furious from Hagrid's detainment, now bounded in to join him, adding her anguished howls to his stream of invectives. "We'll catch Severus yet," he said.

"Sehhvuhusss," she said, thickly. Without waiting for Weasley's command, she launched herself out the window and over the flagstones. Landing on all fours in the wet grass, she lifted her nose, sniffed, and then plunged down a nearby slope.

 


	28. Night Crossing

# Night Crossing

 

Darkness roiled below and raged above him; the wind screamed in his ears and rain lashed at his face, but Severus quickened his flight, determined to outdistance the reach of Weasley's wand and the edge of his map. That blasted map! As if Potter and his band of Animagi hadn't buggered him enough with that rank lump of parchment in life, they now sought a posthumous encore through that wretched red head! Hermione  _had_  tried to warn him. If only he'd listened, he might now know a place where they'd be safe and unseen! Lightning flashed and the lake rose beneath him, a precarious wall of darkness rolling like thunder, every crash of its waves scattering shadows in its shoals. Further out, near its middle, he knew there was a small island chain, but one glance at Hermione told him she'd never make it there alive.

 _The first rule of concealment: hide in plain sight._  His earlier words taunted him, but when no other choice magically presented itself, he followed the shoreline along the Forbidden Forest. Deep within, he knew of an overhang formed by a long ledge. He'd taken refuge there more than once on his foraging expeditions. Although it offered little else in the way of protection, its distance from the castle might stall Weasley, at least for a time.

Time: the one thing Hermione didn't have. Already, he could feel her blood cooling, her body growing heavier in his arms.

That settled it. Turning, he flew over the forest and when he'd reached its heart, dove down through the treetops.

"You'll be safe here," he said, as he touched down beside the ledge.  _Safe..._ The lie tasted as bitter on his tongue as his earlier promise:  _I will never let him hurt you._  What an utter fool he'd been, so blinded by his own arrogance, he'd misjudged Weasley and in doing so, destroyed—

Had she moved just now? He looked, only to discover his rain-slickened hands had just loosened their grip. She was slipping away from him, body and soul, the hole above her heart mocking him with its ragged mouth. Blood pooled in the deepest part of it, but no longer welled. Between Weasley's blow and his thirst, he wondered how she could have any blood left in her at all. "Why didn't you let him hit me? The cast would have rebounded; he'd be dead and you'd be free."

 _Free..._ another lie to burn down his cheeks with his tears. He carried her under the outcropping and slid down against the rocky wall, feeling neither its roughness bite into the cuts in his back nor its dampness, only the sudden, terrible stillness of the body in his arms.

Dead stillness.

Eyes closed, but not asleep, she lay with her head thrown back and lips slightly parted. Tendrils of damp hair clung in curls against her forehead, and a few, loose strands, raked by the wind's careless fingers, caught in her mouth.

He pulled her across his lap and kissed her. It wasn't supposed to end like this.  _She_  wasn't supposed to end this way! "I know you didn't want this, Hermione," he said, opening his wrist with his long nails. Blood streamed from the cuts, a pale steam rising from them like a ghost. "I know you'll be furious; I deserve that." Voice cracking, he cradled her in the crook of his arm and angled his free wrist over her mouth. Blood slopped against her teeth, her lips, and down her ruined shoulder. "I don't even know if I'm doing this right."

This, however terrible, was true. His Turning, accomplished through more  _antiseptic_  means, severely limited his understanding of a process that should have been integral to his very nature. He'd never  _tried_  to turn anyone else before: never Minerva, certainly not Lucius or Narcissa, and he hadn't lingered even  _that_  long over Petunia, leaving before her body hit the kitchen floor. As far as he was concerned, the last three were necessary casualties of his former life, loose ends, neatly knotted; none of them worthy recipients of immortality's Dark Kiss.

Curse was more like it. He glanced at Hermione. If his blood was working its will through her, he'd be damned if he could tell! How long was it supposed to take? The forest sheltered them now, but wouldn't do so indefinitely, and with Weasley on the rampage, how much longer could they afford to wait?

He leaned over and kissed her again. Her lips yielded against his, but they were still as cold as ice. Did she need more blood? Uncaring of how weakened he might become, Severus dragged his nails down his arm again, letting the long gashes shower her with gouts of steaming, sticky red. Still, nothing happened. He slumped back against the stone. All he could do now was wait. Wait and hope.  _Forgive me, Hermione, I couldn't let you go,_  he said, reaching out to her with his mind.  _Come back to me. Give me a sign!_

In the distance, a wolf howled for its mate. Severus raised his head in the direction of the sound, the feral song of longing and estrangement, of soul calling to soul. Long after its echo faded, its desperate ululations continued to resonate in the still chambers of his heart.  _I cannot sing you back,_  he thought sadly, turning his gaze back to Hermione's deathly form.  _I have no song. All my longing and love, no shining beacons to guide you home, only darkness on my lantern: I have no light, no soul. I have set you on the path without end or beginning: a path that you must walk alone._

Guilt crashed over him. Arms tightening around Hermione, he fisted her robe and rocked her, while chanting the strongest healing counter curse he knew like a silent, unholy litany:  _Vulnera sanentur...vulnera sanentur_... _Come back, Hermione. Come back to me!_

Time tightened its coils about him. Far above, an angry wind tossed the trees and the thunder rolled.

 


	29. Dressed in Blood

# Dressed in Blood

Finally,she stirred, making a sound like that of a small animal deep in her throat. "Hermione, can you hear me?" he whispered, his voice trembling with both anticipation and dread.

Her eyes fluttered open, confused and fearful at first, but then softened when they found his. "Severus," she said, thickly.

"Yes, I'm here. I've been waiting for you." He tried to smile, but a lump rose in his throat.

"I dreamed," she said, her voice still heavy from a sleep that lay beyond all rest, all dreaming. "Lost in the dark...I heard you..." trailing off, she struggled to sit up.

"Do you remember what happened before your dream?"

"Light...Pain..." Cloth rustled and he made no move to stop her as she braced herself against his shoulders and rose on shaky legs. "Then snapping...more pain..." Her hand moved to her chest, to a wound no longer as wide or weeping as it had been. "Then, nothing...Then you called...You called and I came..." The hand stopped and she looked over him, her dark eyes focusing on some unknowable spot in the distance.

She looked like a sleepwalker. Having discovered students in the midst of their somnambulistic rambles, he was no stranger to the almost-drunken swaying stance, the thousand-yard stare, and the fragmented speech. Even her voice sounded far away when she said, "I feel different..."

"Yes." Severus watched her, afraid to say more on that subject. If waking a sleepwalker posed certain hazards, he could only imagine that agitation in the hands of a new vampire. He wanted to go to her, but his knees buckled when he tried to stand. "I'm fine, Hermione," he said quickly, although she hadn't asked, wasn't looking at him at all. He noticed the punctures on her neck had disappeared. "I think I just need to—"  
  
Her panicked voice cut him off before he could finish. "I can  _see_ , Severus. I can see in the dark! I see...trees. Trees?"

So much confusion in those eyes! So many questions, stealing across her face like storm clouds. "Yes. We're in the Forbidden Forest," he said, slowly. Never having experienced this degree of disorientation with his own Turning, he now found himself in a situation that left him completely poleaxed.

"Everything's so clear...I can hear..." She cocked her head. "I can hear the grass crackling..." Throwing her arms around a large tree, she pressed her ear against it and said, "I can hear the scratch of claws, the hum of wings..."

"Indeed?" The too-high pitched giggle that followed this sent a frisson of fear through him. With her new nature came a host of heightened senses, sensations that were now flooding her. Again, this was an area in which he'd had precious little experience: thanks to his blood heritage, his own powers of perception had been abnormally enhanced  _before_  he became a vampire. Terror rising, he watched her spread her arms and spin in the rain, her robe flapping about her like an enormous black wing. He had to stop her before her skin started singing or the night wind began whispering in ancient tongues: before the enormity of the situation drove her to utter madness.

He cleared his throat sharply. She looked at him.  _Good._  "We came here because we had to leave the castle. Someone found us, Hermione. Do you remember?"

She tilted her chin and sniffed. "Wet dog..."

"A wolf, I think. I heard it earlier, before you...." He only hoped it was a wolf and not attar of Weasley. He scanned the woods, but could see nothing.

"Weasley," she said, echoing his thoughts. "Weasleyfoundus..."

Severus nodded. "He found us. We argued. Do you remember what he—"

Her eyes grew wide as saucers. "He shot me! Here!" She pulled the robe away, revealing pale, unblemished skin. "Gone," she said, her fingertips tracing over the spot. Then her hand flew to her heart. Her lips moved, but Severus couldn't hear what she was saying. When she looked at him again, new fear found him: the sleepwalker had most definitely awakened. "I'm a—you made me a—a—vampire," she said, eyes blazing like coals. "How could you?"

"I had no choice. Would you rather have died?"

"Yes—no—I don't know! Oh, gods!" She turned away.

"I know it's not what you wanted. You made yourself quite clear on that point,you're your wounds were too severe."Pulling himself up by a nearby tree, he stumbled over to her. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

"But you have lost me, Severus, don't you see," she said in a small voice.

"Don't say that, Hermione!"

"Don't call me that!" She wheeled on him. "I'm not Hermione anymore! I'm not  _me_  anymore, Severus! I'm this—this— _Thing!"_ She pulled at her tangle of wild hair and clutched at her robe."You've made me a monster!"

"Out of love for you! And you're no more a monster than I am," he said sullenly.

"Love? Right. Because you  _loved_  your own immortality so much you preferred drowning it in a potion to becoming something so  _unnatural_. Yes, I believe that was the term you used to describe it earlier: unnatural," she spat.

"Things are different, now." He knew how banal this sounded, even before she snorted. "Circumstances are different, but my feelings towards you haven't changed. Herm—"

"How many others have there been, Severus?"

"Others?" he echoed.

She ticked the names off on her fingers: "Lucius, Narcissa, Petunia—I  _know_  you hypnotized Mr. Filch—'Master,' indeed! And you did something terrible to Professor Trelawney too, something so heinous, it drove her mad—and now, I make six. Six, Severus! How many more have you lured into your trap, used as your personal blood bank?" She pummeled his chest with her fists. "I trusted you! I wanted to help you! I cared about you and I thought—no...No! No, don't touch me," she cried, twisting free when he put his hands gently on her shoulders. "I can't look at you! Just leave me alone! Leave me!" She stomped over to a fallen log and stared into the rain.

"Before you, I Turned only one other."

"Just stop! Stop! I can't listen to any more of this!" She clapped her hands over her ears.

"You will hear me," he said, his words knife-edged. No longer shaky, he strode over to her and pulled her hands to her sides. "I went to great lengths to bring you back, but my purpose was never entrapment! I had a part to play and though I loathed it, I played it to the last, even engineering my own death at Voldemort's hands—and would have died, had I not taken a certain measure beforehand."

Her eyes flashed in the gloom. "Whose blood was it, Severus? Whose life did you sacrifice?"

"Mine."

Silence stretched between them, the tension in each moment thrumming like a living current. Finally, in a small voice, she said, "I watched you die."

"And I regret that, truly. I hadn't anticipated your discovery. When I saw you there, when I heard what was in your heart—"

"No, stop! Please! It's all too much—I can't—I just can't!" Breaking free, she ran away from him, crashing through the brush.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you!" He raced after her. "I dreamed of you—dreamed about  _being_  with you. You'd completely bewitched me. Before that night, I'd only caught flashes of your thoughts, glimpses of your daydreams at times in class—"

That stopped her. She turned to face him. "Is no private thought safe from you, Severus Snape?"

"If one excels at Occlumency, yes," he drawled.

One corner of her mouth twitched.

"You loved me then, but I needed to  _know_  that your feelings were not some schoolgirl fancy," he said, softly. "That is why I summoned you back to Hogwarts. That is why I chose to give myself, my gift to you—you and you alone. I have never wanted anyone more than I want you, Hermione. That is why I Turned you." Trembling now, eyes gleaming, he knelt before her and clasped her hands in his. "I love you, Hermione. I love you."

"I want to believe you, Severus, really, I do. Before this happened, you were all I thought I ever wanted—but I—I just wish..." She stared over his head and into the darkness.

"I would do anything to prove it to you." His blood had made her immortal, but it would take more than words to turn her heart. "Anything at all, Hermione," he said, thinking the squeeze she gave his hand a sign of reassurance.

Then she screamed.

 

 


	30. The Wolf and the Dragon

# The Wolf and the Dragon

Severus was on his feet in a flash. "Werewolf," he snarled, baring his fangs at the shaggy creature that had burst through a patch of briars and now stood not fifty yards from them. Close behind, wand light bobbed through the trees and he could hear the pounding of feet and the snapping of branches. 

Bathed in the glow of unnatural moonlight, Sybill flexed her claws and growled at them, but instead of pouncing, shook her long mane and howled. Then she began rocking back and forth on her haunches, repeating Severus' name in her guttural, broken speech. While barely human, her voice was still brimming with shock, and betrayal.

"The moon will weep," Hermione whispered.

"What are you talking about?"

"Trelawney! Her prophecy!"

"You think that's her?" Severus snorted. "That's impossible."

"No, it isn't. Greyback snatched her from St. Mungo's."

"Something else you might have mentioned," Severus hissed. "How long have you known?"

Before she could frame a retort, Weasley picked his way through the bushes and sauntered to the creature's side. Bidding her follow with a wave of his wand, he advanced on the pair, saying, "Do you see now, Sybill? While you waited, pining after your darling Severus, while you endured kidnapping and torture at the hands of a monster, your precious Severus abandoned you!" Halfway to them, he stopped. "You don't need a crystal ball to see he's been carrying on with a mere slip of a girl—and one of his students, no less!" His gaze flickered to Hermione, taking in the nakedness beneath her open robe and her curious lack of wounds. "Ruined her too, from the look of it; such a pity, Hermione, you had so much potential, but now, no decent Wizarding family will want anything to do with you—including mine!"

Fists clenched white, Hermione silently glowered at him.

Sybill snarled again, spraying Weasley's face with droplets of thick, white spittle. Recoiling in disgust, he wiped his face with his coat sleeve. "All in good time, Sybill."

"Going to sic you doggie on me? What an  _unforgivable_  waste of a good curse," Snape drawled.

"I'd prefer to use an  _Immolatus_ , but my wand is otherwise engaged."

"That's a coward's tactic, Weasley, although I'm sure some of your fellow inmates in Azkaban will give you a hero's welcome."

"Oh, I'll be a hero, but it won't be anywhere  _near_  Azkaban!" He raised his wand.

Nearby, Hermione heard the slight but unmistakable whooshof  _Apparation._  "You won't get away with this," she said, joining Severus.

"Stay back! You're not strong enough to fight." Hissing, Severus unsuccessfully tried to wave her off.

"No, not until I  _feed_ , isn't that right!"

"Hermione, please," Severus said, pushing her aside, "if Trelawney bites you—"

"I'm not leaving!"

"Quarreling already? Didn't take long to shake the dew off  _that_  lily, did it," Weasley said, chuckling hollowly.

Tilting her chin at him, Hermione said, "You're already outnumbered.

"Outnumbered by a wandless witch and her blood lusting bedfellow? You must take me for a fool, girl! I've gone to great lengths to ensure a complete lack of witnesses to tonight's events."

"Not great enough, Arthur." Hagrid stomped out from behind one of the huge oaks. "Guess that means you'll have to kill me, too."

"And us," Minerva said, her crisp tone cutting the air like a knife. "Are you sure you possess that much vitriol? I believe you already know Olga."

Weasley's face fell when he saw the imposing figure at her side. The tall woman with long, white hair, whose pale eyes flashed in the gloom like an owl's. His cruel smile faded to a grim line; his back stiffened.

"This is unconscionable. Unhand my patient this instant," the elderly Healer said in her thick, Romanian accent.

Now, it was Severus' turn to laugh, "Remind me, Weasley: what's that old Muggle saying about the best laid schemes of mice and men?"

"The Aurors will be here soon," Minerva said. Levelling her wand at Weasley, she said, "Lift your  _Imperius Curse_  immediately." Behind her, the air crackled with static as a group of St. Mungo's Attendants appeared. Brandishing short, thick wands, the phalanx of frightened young men tightened around the two elderly witches.

"Empty threats don't suit you, Minerva. I know those are just Medi-Wands!" His mirthless laughter was soon swallowed the mist-shrouded trees.

Stepping forward, Olga raised her hand. A ball of fire appeared in her palm. "Stop this now, while you still have a choice," she said.

"A firebrand? Save your Gypsy trickery for the carnival," he spat at her. "Go, Sybill!"

Zombie-like, Sybill loped towards Snape and Hermione on all fours.

"Lift your curse or—"

"Or  _what, Minerva_?" Arrogance restored, Weasley rounded on her. "You'll petrify me? Kill me?" Casting a withering glance at Hagrid, he said, "And you, Hagrid, what will you do? You, who can't even perform the simplest cleansing charm!"

Eyes on Sybill, who'd picked up her pace and was rapidly closing on the pair, Minerva said, "Please, Arthur, Let's all go back to the castle and sort this out. You cannot take the law into your own hands."

"I am the law!" He pounded his chest with his fist.

"Must. Protect. Master." Filch flung himself out of the woods and onto Weasley's back, knocking him off balance. Losing his grip on the wand, Arthur pitched forward.

"Atta boy, Argus!" Hagrid cried. "Keep him busy and don't let him get ter that wand!"

"Get away, you old fool!" Weasley's fist slammed into the old caretaker's face.

Filch's nose shattered with a sickening crunch. Rolling clear of Weasley, he curled into a fetal position and bawled. While Hagrid ran to his aid, Hermione started towards Weasley's wand, but before she could utter the retrieval spell, he snatched it up and screamed, "Attack, Sybill— _Kill!"_

Claws bared and jaws snapping, Were-Sybill sprang at her.

"Hermione! No!" Severus threw her aside, placing himself directly into Sybill's path.

She slammed into him, a fury of fangs and claws, tearing at his face and neck, and snarling at him in her gravelly voice. Her claws gouged bloody furrows across his upper chest. "Muheye vishhuhnn!"

"I've had enough of your bloody visions!" Grabbing one of her forearms, he twisted, hard, relishing her enraged shriek and the unmistakable  _'crack'_  as her wrist snapped. "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" An upward thrust dislocated her shoulder with a sickening  _'pop'_.

"Get off him!" Hermione twisted a fistful of Sybill's filthy mane and yanked hard.

"Paralyze her!" Snape snarled.

" _Immobi_ —I can't get a clear shot, Severus!" Minerva cried.

A wordless curse from Severus sent Sybill careening into the trees. "Now, Minerva! Do it now!"

As McGonagall took aim, Sybill rounded on Hermione, one swipe slamming her back against a boulder and then face down in a puddle of rainwater. While Sybill resumed her attack on Severus, McGonagall hurried to Hermione's side.

Severus tried to counter with a sidelong assault, but Sybill ducked his blow and lunged at him low, taking him out at the knees and sinking her teeth deep into his upper thigh. He screamed, clawing at her back for purchase as they toppled, and then, sank his fangs into her shoulder.

The rain ceased.

A sliver of red light erupted between the sparring creatures. Hovering between them like a floating sliver, it pulsed and shivered, then shimmered outward, its aura widening and brightening until the eerie corona encompassed them both, encasing them in a shared crimson cocoon. It blazed for a split second, before imploding with a monstrous sucking sound. Lightning tendrils erupted beneath Sybill and Severus. Buoyed by them, trapped by their inherent forces, the pair rose skyward, unable to speak or move on a climbing column of pure, whirling energy. Then, as quickly as they began, the fireworks vanished completely, leaving Sybill and Severus suspended in midair.

"She bit him! She bit him! Oh, gods, noooo!" Moaning, Hermione gazed up at Severus.

"Shh, I'm here, Hermione," Minerva pulled her close. "I'm right here."

"You don't understand."  _He said he'd do anything to prove his love and he did. He sacrificed himself to save me!_ "I thought I could help him, but he—and Mr. Weasley wouldn't leave us—leave Severus alone and now,  _now_  it's too late! It's all my—all my..." choking on rage and tears, Hermione trailed off.

"It will be over soon," Olga said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Do not dwell on such things now."

"None of this is your fault, Hermione," Minerva smoothed Hermione's hair and rocked her like a baby in her arms. "Here now, don't look; it's best you didn't see this."

But Hermione could not— _would not_ look away.

Deep in the earth, a rumbling began beneath the suspended pair. Rippling out at first, like waves of an invisible sea, it overturned boulders and uprooted tall trees. Olga bowed her head; Hagrid and Filch watched dumfounded; and bracing themselves, Hermione and Minerva clung to one another and screamed. Gathering its preternatural source back into itself, it shot upward, a column of pure light, shaking Sybill and Severus with bone rattling intensity before blasting them apart in a single thunderclap.

Sybill struck her head on a rock as she landed. Snape, thrown further by the blast, sprawled over a fallen log.

"Severus!" Hermione hurried to his side.

"She did it! He's dead! The bastard's dead!" Laughing, Weasley leapt to his feet.

Olga, quickly conjuring blankets and bandages, directed the Attendants. Leaving Hermione to tend to Severus, Minerva picked her way across the decimated forest to Sybill and gently rolled her over.

Rushing over, face flushed with glee, Arthur wheezed, "Can you hear me, Sybill? You killed him! You—Merlin's beard!" Ashen-faced, he withdrew from her. "What's happening to her?" The longer he stared, the more Were-Sybill seemed to shrink before his very eyes. Her claws retracted, their ebony coloring draining away as they reformed into pale fingernails; the powerful muscles in her elongated arms and thighs atrophied and her limbs shortened, resuming their former size. The tawny lanugo that had once covered her body fell away, revealing patchy, battle-scarred flesh. Her hair lightened and shortened; her snout receded and her features softened, becoming more recognizably feminine, until at last, she lay before him naked, bleeding, and utterly broken. "My gods, she's—she's  _human_  again," he gasped.

"Of course she's human, Arthur, what did you think would happen?" Minerva covered her with a blanket, pausing just long enough in her ministrations to glare at him over the tops of her half-moon spectacles. "You still have no idea what you've done here tonight, do you?"

Sybill groaned. One of her legs twitched.

"No, dear. You just lie still. We'll take you home soon." Minerva patted her uninjured shoulder and then signaled for the Attendants to bring a floating litter.

"She bit him, he bit her, then boom!" Weasley scratched his head with the tip of his wand. "I saw it with my own eyes!'

"She's a  _Muggle_ now, you idiot. Thanks to your meddling, they both are!  _Muggles,_ Arthur! Mortal, powerless as a pair of Squibs—such a senseless waste of magical potential boggles the mind! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Glancing over at Snape, he muttered, "Well, at least he's dead."

"He most certainly is not," Olga snapped.

Weasley spun on his heel. "Still alive, you say? Well, I can fix that!" He aimed his wand at Snape's blanketed form.  _"AVA—"_

 _"Fractus!"_  Olga cried, cutting him off mid-curse. One snap of her fingers shattering Weasley's wand into a million little pieces and leaving him with a handful of splinters to boot. "You're not the only one who knows  _wandless_  magic," he growled, raising his uninjured hand.

"I was afraid you'd say that.  _Petrificus Totalus!" Minerva tapped his shoulder with the tip of her wand._  Arthur stiffened, listed to one side briefly, and then toppled over, gape-mouthed and goggle-eyed.

"Hagrid? What happened?" Sitting up, staunching his nose with his pocket handkerchief, Filch eyed his surroundings suspiciously. "Where the blazes am I?"

"Er, that's kind of a long story, Argus. Here, let me give you a hand."

Minerva stepped back, allowing the Attendants to levitate Sybill. Following their example, Hermione and Olga did the same for Severus' limp, still unconscious form.

"Hagrid, if you'll help Mr. Filch, I believe we'll be able to get everyone back to the Infirmary safely."

"Uh, Perfesser, what about...?" Hagrid jerked his thumb at Arthur Weasley.

The night erupted with more swooshing and popping sounds. A team of Aurors appeared in the woods.

"Better late than never," Hagrid muttered under his breath.

"You'll find Sybill's kidnapper and Fenrir Greyback's murderer over there," Minerva said crisply to the Aurors. "Oh, and if you haven't done so already, send Kingsley to my quarters at once, I'd like to have a few words with our Minister," Minerva said crisply to the Aurors. In the distance, thunder rumbled again. "Come along everyone, I think the rain's about to start again. With that, she began leading the small procession back to the castle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Harry Potter and his friends belong to the estimable J. K. Rowling, but I like to spirit them away on other adventures.


	31. Mutatis Aeternum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, same disclaimer: I'm still just borrowing from the world that Rowling made.

# Mutatis Aeternum

"You sanctioned this vampire hunt, Minister. I hope you're pleased with yourself." Minerva glared at Kingsley over her half-moon spectacles.

"Severus was a person of interest in the Malfoy murders. Arthur had my full support to bring him in for questioning, but Minerva, I swear I had no idea that he would take things so far." His hands fluttered as he shifted in the ramrod-backed, unpadded chair someone had conjured opposite of what once had been Dumbledore's desk. He felt like a naughty boy awaiting punishment: nervous and slightly sick to his stomach, conditions he attributed to the lateness of the hour, the dual summons (one of them a Howler) that had driven him from his nice, warm bed, and the unnerving emptiness of the Headmistress' quarters. Except for her desk and their chairs, there wasn't a single stick of furniture in the entire room. He wanted to ask why her accommodations now resembled an echo chamber, but had a sinking feeling that a certain wizard would figure prominently in her response.

Kingsley ran through the ever-lengthening list of offenses in his head: the use of at least two Unforgivable Curses with the intent to commit murder, the  _actual_  murder of a known felon, unauthorized use of wards, conspiracy, kidnapping, assault...he sighed. To make matters worse, there wasn't a single thing he could do now to justify Weasley's outrageous actions for the "common good." No apology, no matter how sincere, could mitigate Arthur's actions, and attempting to do so would probably get him hexed into next week by Minerva.

A glance across the table told him she'd do it, too.

 _Please say something,_ he silently pleaded, but silence prevailed. Then again, he decided, enduring an awkward silence was preferable to being turned to stone.

Except part of him had done just that, in a manner of speaking: Kingsley had lost all feeling in his posterior.

This, he was certain, had  _nothing_  to do with the night's devastating news and  _everything_  to do with his chair. A chair that looked perfectly normal, but now seemed to be shrinking by increments. He wondered if Minerva had hexed it specifically for their meeting or if it was a castoff from the Albus Dumbledore Collection of Cursed Office Decor. One of its legs was shorter than the other, which made it teeter at the slightest movement; and its position, dangerously close to the edge of the dais, made him feel as though he were going to go heels up at any moment.

He looked up from his troubled thoughts to find the Headmistress still glaring at him.  _Oh, dear..._ He cleared his throat, screwed up his courage, and said, "On behalf of the  _entire_  Ministry for Magic, Minerva, I would like to extend my most sincere apologies for the appalling manner in which you and Miss Granger have been treated."

" _And_ Hagrid, Mr. Filch, Sybill Trelawney, Olga Lavatska,  _and_  Severus Snape," she said stridently. "Especially Severus, or have you forgotten him already?"

"N-no Minerva, I assure you I have not," he stuttered, knowing his cheeks and the tips of his ears had turned as red as coals. He could feel them burning. The chair rocked suddenly and Shacklebolt scooted forward to the edge of his seat, only to find himself in another uncomfortable position, this time, with his knees wedged beneath one wing of the great gilt-covered phoenix that served as the desk's decorative front piece. Feathers weren't supposed to be so  _sharp_. "I have removed Arthur from his position as Head of Magical Law Enforcement and you have my solemn word that he will be punished for his misdeeds. Severely punished. To the full extent of the law," he said, pounding the desktop for emphasis.

"I should certainly hope so," Minerva sniffed. She poured herself a cup of tea.

"He is on his way to a holding cell as we speak."

She nearly dropped her cup. "A holding cell? I hope not one in the Ministry." She said the last word as if she'd just swallowed a mouthful of gall.

"No..." Kingsley squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.  _Again._ "Azkaban." The lie made his stomach do a little flip. "In light of his recent actions, I believe Arthur is a danger to the wizarding community, a potential flight risk, and quite possibly deranged."

"Working on his insanity defense already?"

Kingsley threw his hands in the air. "I have stripped him of his rank and arrested him, Minerva. Really, what more would you have me do, draw and quarter him in the castle courtyard?" Her eyes remained steely, but one side of her mouth twitched. Determined to seize the slim opportunity, leaning in, he said gravely, "He's going to Azkaban, Minerva—Azkaban! He'll be clapped in shackles, enjoy a robust diet of bread and water, and all the Dementors' Kisses he can dodge—all that before he stands trial before the Wizengamot. Isn't that torture enough?"

"Yes, you're right, of course."

Although he had no intention of sending Arthur to Azkaban, he couldn't afford him taking any more liberties in the Ministry's name. Murder, conspiracy, and skullduggery:  _Oh, my!_ Rita Skeeter was going to have a field day with this—that is, if she wasn't already. He wondered just how much Weasley had leaked to her during their after-hours encounters. If that trail of deceit ever found its way back to him, he'd never survive the scandal!

 _"Oh, don't look so browbeaten, Kingsley!_ Apology accepted. Brandy?" Minerva conjured a decanter and snifters.

"Please."  _A bottle would do._ He rubbed his temples. Infamy, he decided, much like late night calamity, didn't suit him. Grateful for the reprieve, as well as the generous glass she now handed him, Kingsley did his level best to appear relaxed. Not an easy task, given that his assigned seating was now squeezing and pinching his ample thighs, but with a little wriggling, he  _did_  finally extricate his pudgy knees from beneath the blasted phoenix.

"I wanted to commend you on your rapid marshalling of a medical response team tonight," he said. "How did you manage to summon a Senior Healer on such short notice?"

"Olga—Madame Lavatska supervised Professor Trelawney's care at St. Mungo's," Minerva said, daintily plucking a finger sandwich from a pile on a nearby tray. "Would you care for another sandwich?"

One mouthful of that unidentifiable meat paste had been more than enough for him. "Thank you, but I'm fine." He took a large swallow of brandy.

"Olga and I are old friends, you know, former schoolmates, actually." McGonagall nibbled at her sandwich.

"Indeed?" Shacklebolt glanced nervously towards the door. "How much longer do you think it will take?" A sudden knock at the door answered his question.

"Enter." Minerva waved her hand and the stately doors swung open.

"Headmistress." The elderly Healer smiled as she stepped inside. "I always knew you'd have the title someday, Minerva, but never could have foreseen the circumstances under which that appointment would be conferred." The smile faded as her gaze lighted upon Dumbledore's still slumbering portrait.

"Nor I, Olga." Minerva conjured a padded chair next to hers and patted its seat. "Please, won't you join us?"

"I cannot stay long. I still need to examine Miss Granger. Given the delicate nature of the assessment, I would prefer to meet with her privately." Swiftly, almost noiselessly, she ascended the stairs to the dais with a grace belying her years and took a seat.

"In what way delicate?" Kingsley asked, while Minerva poured a cup of tea.

"Certain  _allegations_  surfaced as the Aurors were removing Mr. Weasley from the premises. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not."

"So they were lovers! Arthur was right!" Kingsley jumped in his seat, banging the table.

"Arthur was wrong about many things, including Miss Granger's reputation," Minerva's hand trembled as she reached for her cup and saucer. "Olga, how are the others?"

"Yes, how are they, especially Severus?" Shacklebolt interjected a little too eagerly.

"Mr. Filch has a broken nose and multiple lacerations. His summer pneumonia's concerning, given his age, but I'm confident that a bronchial tonic and a few days of rest will set him to rights.  _He's_  lucky. Miss Trelawney wasn't as fortunate, however." She smoothed a wrinkle in her robe. "In addition to her were-transformation and the effects of the Imperius Curse, she sustained multiple fractures, lacerations, and a severe brain insult. So severe, she has no recollection of tonight's events, no concept of time or place. She cannot even remember own name: all memory, gone." Olga passed her hand over her face.  _"Tabula rasa."_

"Poor Sybill." McGonagall shook her head.

"But, Madame Lavatska, won't her amnesia resolve once the swelling in her head subsides?" Kingsley asked, feigning concern. Things would go better for Arthur if Sybill couldn't remember certain details. He took a nervous sip of his brandy.

"Hers is one of the worst cases of traumatic amnesia I've seen since the Gilderoy Lockhart case. I only hope hers will be considerably less  _publicized_." She glared pointedly at him. "Like the former professor, she will require extensive hospitalization and rehabilitation, quite possibly for the rest of her life."

"How dreadful!" McGonagall gasped.

"Pity." Kingsley nodded.  _Good news for Weasley, then._

"Since she was already an established patient at St. Mungo's, I have transported her back by Medi-Floo."

Minerva's eyes watered, her voice quavered, and one hand flew to the brooch at her neck as she said, "And Severus, Olga? What is his condition?"

"Grave."

"You mean he's going to die?" Kingsley leaned forward in his seat.

"Don't be ghoulish!"

"Worse than death, his fate," Olga said. " _Physically_ , his injuries are minor: he is young, healthy, and his body will heal quickly.  _Ethereally_ , however, he is devoid, empty: no longer a vampire and no longer magical."

"Not magical? How?" Shacklebolt echoed. Minerva began to sob.

"The were-venom, of course. Whenever there is a fluid exchange between a werewolf and vampire, a migration or transfer of soul results. The werewolf has an excess of souls, while the vampire has none. Both beings exist in a constant state of unnatural imbalance. When they connect," pausing, she interlaced her hands together, "balance is forcibly restored. Unfortunately, the soul that infuses the vampire cannot differentiate magical from demonic energy: both are displaced. As a result, there is not a shred of numinous energy left in Severus. Unlike Sybill, however,  _he_  remembers—he remembers  _everything_."

"I must see him at once!" Moaning, Minerva rose.

"He is not in the castle. I transferred him for his own safety." She clasped her hands in her lap. "Once he has healed, he is free to go."

"Yes, I think that's for the best," Minerva said between snuffles.

" _Free?_ For the  _best_? Are you both stark, raving  _mad_?" Shacklebolt spluttered. "Severus Snape is a criminal: a serial murderer, a fugitive from justice, and a vampire. He must stand trial for his crimes!"

"Being a  _vampire_  is not a  _crime_ , Minister," Olga replied icily, eyes glinting. Then, regaining composure, she said quietly, "And nothing will ever restore him to his former powers. He will live out the rest of his natural life as a mortal: a  _Muggle_. Such a waste!" She shook her head. "I am truly sorry, Minerva."

"But his crimes," Kingsley began.

"We have no grounds to hold him, unless I am incorrect in my understanding of Magical Law, Minister," Minerva said between sniffles.

"No, you're quite right," he said, crestfallen. "We can no more send a Muggle to Azkaban, than we can petition their courts to try him for his wizardly crimes. Damn!" He pounded the arm of the chair.

"Then it's settled." Minerva daubed her eyes with the corner of her linen napkin.

"Yes," Shacklebolt sighed. "Perhaps exile with an intact memory will prove a more rigorous torture than any at the Dementors' hands. Having to live with that loss, the knowledge of it, and his complicity in it, over time, could drive him mad..." Trailing off, he contemplated a vision of Snape homeless, destitute, and unhinged. The Death Eater-turned-Dungeon Bat brought low, crushed beneath the Wheel of Justice. He smiled.

"Your compassion in the face of this tragedy is overwhelming, Minister," Olga muttered.

Somewhere, a clock chimed the third hour of the new day.

"It's late; I really must be going. Thank you for your services, Madame Lavatska. Minerva." Kingsley pried himself free from his now much-too-small seat and bowed to them clumsily. Robes swishing, he limped to the fireplace on legs he could barely feel.

"You'll have to  _Apparate._  I'm afraid we're out of Floo Powder," said Minerva.

"That's fine. Oh, before I forget, Minerva, there is just one more thing." Turning back to her, he said, "In light of everything that's happened tonight, I trust you are going to  _reconsider_ Miss Granger's  _return_  to Hogwarts?"

"Surely, you can't be serious, Kingsley." Rising, she leaned across the desk. "Hermione Granger is one of the most gifted witches Hogwarts has seen in over half a century!"

"Arthur said that she was naked." Shacklebolt countered darkly. "With. Severus."

"For a ritual, Kingsley! Blood magic—as I explained upon your arrival."

"He's still her  _professor_ , Minerva."

" _Former_  professor."

"Ritual or no, certain assumptions can still be made," he said snidely.

" _That_  remains to be seen," Olga said, bristling.

"Then I suggest you  _see_  to it, Madame Lavatska!"

"Granted, it is a thorny situation, Kingsley, but to destroy Hermione on the basis of Arthur Weasley's  _baseless_ accusations is reprehensible!"

"Baseless or not, the  _question_  of impropriety—conduct unbecoming a student and a Prefect at that—still remains. Corrective measures must be taken."

"It's vile, Kingsley!"

"It's rubbish!" Olga spat.

Opening his arms in a grand gesture, he said, "We find ourselves tonight on the brink of another war, one that will be raged, not only in the halls of the Wizengamot, but also in the court of public opinion. It is not a suggestion, Minerva: it is a risk we simply cannot afford to take."

 _"We?"_ Olga rose, sallow-faced. Looking down her beak-like nose, she clipped, "You are punishing the innocent to save your precious reputation! Not Weasley's, not the Ministry's, but  _yours_ , Minister: destroying a young woman's life to hide your own  _collusion_  in these events." She jabbed one, long finger at him. "Yours are not the actions of a leader, but a coward!"

"How dare you accuse me, woman!" Shacklebolt spat. "You, who would blithely allow a murderer to go free! I'll have your license!"

"You'll hold the wind." Squaring her shoulders, Olga said, "You forget, Minister, I am a member of the Carpathian Consulate and have diplomatic immunity in this country."

"Then I'll have you deported!" Kingsley's face burned livid.

"Try it and I shall tell the authorities how you conscripted Greyback's services to facilitate the kidnapping of Sybill Trelawney, and conspired with Arthur Weasley to capture and kill Severus Snape."

"That's preposterous!"

"Your face betrays you. Preposterous or not, appearance, as you say, is everything! The  _question_  of impropriety, conduct unbecoming a member of the Ministry, would remain. Even if the Wizengamot defended you, I doubt your  _reputation_ could stand cross-examination in the harsher court of public opinion." She shrugged. "As above, so below, eh, Minister?"

Stung, he glowered at Minerva and said, "This doesn't end here." Pulling his robes about him with a snap, he vanished.

"Please, tell me you're not going to expel one of your brightest students."

"Unlike you, I  _am_  bound to his authority. Oh, Hermione, Hermione!" McGonagall buried her face in her hands and cried.

 


	32. Separate Lives

# Separate Lives

 

There were cleaner, drier, and more comfortable places in the castle, but Hermione wanted none of them. The room reeked of scorched wool, spilled lantern oil, and blood. Too much blood. Most of it hers. She'd opened all the doors and windows to air out the room as best she could, but no matter what she did, the scent remained, coppery-sharp and unmistakable. For all her efforts, the only odor she'd managed to almost completely obliterate was his.

 _His because_  she couldn't bring herself to think his name, let alone speak it. There was power in a name, magic in every syllable: part of her knew that voicing it in an empty room would break that spell. To say his name was to lose him forever.

And she was losing him, ever since the forest, she could feel him slipping further and further away. He no longer whispered inside her head and her efforts to reach him fell into silence. The return to the castle was the longest walk of her life: no matter how tightly she squeezed his hand or desperately she entreated, he wouldn't awaken and hadn't stirred. Once they'd arrived, McGonagall's Healer friend had whisked him away with the others and forbidden her access to the Infirmary, leaving her alone with her thoughts in the long hours that followed.

She wasn't angry anymore.

Well, she wasn't angry with  _him_. He'd kept his promise, proven his love, and in the end, paid the price. They all had. The moon wept and blood ran: even Trelawney couldn't escape becoming a pawn in her own prophecy. Of all of them, Sybill was truly an innocent victim. Hermione couldn't feel anger for her, only pity.

Thoughts of Weasley, on the other hand, made her new fangs twitch. The wounds he'd inflicted had only healed on the outside. They would meet again one day and when they did—

Hermione pushed the thought away. Better to seek justice than revenge. But could enough justice ever be extracted for what he'd done to her, to Sybill, and—Severus. "Severus," she whispered, the name breaking the spell in a sudden flood of tears.

The sofa cushion squished beneath her, but she felt neither its wetness nor its chill. The fire still burned, but she couldn't feel the warmth of its flames. She didn't want to feel hurt, hot, or cold.

She didn't want to feel anything at all.

 _Especially not the hunger. Like rage, it rose_  inside her, clawing at the inside of her throat, knotting her stomach, and stiffening her joints. She knew she needed to feed, but she didn't want to. Indulging the hunger would make it real, would make  _her—_

Hermione looked up at the frame that no longer held his image, an oblong of black canvas, a portal to nowhere, the blank slate that now signified  _him._  Like his name, another spell, broken. "What should I do?" she asked.

The door to his storeroom opened and a phial floated out. A fluted, lavender phial, filled with a potion.

Should she drink it? Would Severus really have wanted her to choose asphodel and aconite over platelets and plasma? His words came back, haunting her:  _I've spent a lifetime hiding who and what I am, subverting my true nature out of shame, fearful of its power..._

Then again, where in bloody hell was she going to get fresh blood without shedding blood?

That settled it.

 _"Accio,"_ she whispered, the fingers of one hand reaching for glass container.

It flew into the fireplace and shattered against the stone fire back.

_Bugger._

In the bedroom, curtains  _'fwaaped'_  tiredly over the broken window. Outside, the rain slowly drip-drip-dripped. Time crawled and her vision grew fuzzy around the edges, all images fading, disintegrating from the outside in. Part of her wished she could fade with them, become boneless, weightless: insubstantial as a shadow. If she didn't sate her hunger soon, she had a feeling that she would do just that. Turning, she knelt on the soggy cushions, braced herself on the back of the couch, and scanned the bookshelves, wondering if any sage advice for the newly Undead lay hidden inside those books.

_Feed...The thought made her fangs throb. "But I broke the phial," she whimpered, sliding back to her former position._

Another drifted out of the storeroom. This time, Hermione waited until it landed on the coffee table.

Potion or blood: in the end, did it really matter? She needed something and either way, there was no going back. She picked up the tiny, lavender bottle. Its contents looked cloudy and slimy: completely unappetizing.

He'd said it was an appetite suppressant.

She was beyond caring.

Summoning all her resolve, Hermione pulled out its cork stopper with her teeth. Immediately, a new odor filled the room, a cross between dead fish and turpentine. Gods, it minged! She regarded the small container narrowly. To think, he'd taken it for years! How had he managed without turning his innards inside out? Hand trembling, Hermione pinched her nose, raised the vial to her lips, and offered up a silent toast:  _I will never ail, I will never age, and I will never die_.

 _You might, if you drink that slop._  A strange voice filled her head.  _There are better ways, much more pleasant ways to get what you want, what you need._ Someone plucked the phial from her hand. Hermione opened her eyes.

The Healer with the long, white braid stood beside her. The one who wouldn't let her stay with Severus and who'd eyed her so cannily.

_"Here, let me show you."_

Madame Lavatska set her oversized satchel on the coffee table. "There are easier ways." She opened it and pulled out a plastic transfusion bag. "See? No muss, no fuss, and best of all, no murder required." She charmed one of the overstuffed chairs dry and took a seat.

Her voice was soothing, almost hypnotic.  _"But where did you—"_

 _"Drink first; questions later."_ She snapped off the transfusion port and handed the bag to Hermione. It smelled delicious! Hermione drank greedily.

"Like the Ministry, St. Mungo's shares a charmed space," she said. "Its human hospital has a blood bank, but if the blood is not used within a very short time, the workers must throw it away. Can you imagine?"

Hermione could, but picturing an entire room filled to the rafters with blood made her hungrier still.

"Do you mind?" Madame Lavatska pointed to the potion vial, which soon vanished with a flick of her fingers. "It's nauseating. Not one of my better concoctions."

It took her a minute to make the connection. "The potion in Professor McGonagall's locket! You're O. L!"

"Olga, yes. Drink more." When Hermione had finished her second unit, she said, "Better?"

Warmth and flexibility returned to her aching limbs, Hermione nodded. "Much. Thank you."

"I wonder if you would humor an old woman. Where is your wand?"

"In there." Hermione waved to the fire. "Mr. Weasley destroyed it."

"No matter." She pulled a Medi-Wand out of her prodigious bag and set it on the far edge of the coffee table. "Call this one to you."

_"Accio Medi-Wand!"_

Slowly, it rose from the table, hovered in midair for a moment, and then glided straight into Hermione's outstretched hand.

"Excellent work! You're stronger than you look," Olga said, settling back in her armchair. "So, Miss Granger, have you given any thought as what you'll do now to further your... education?"

"I gather I'm no longer welcome at Hogwarts, then," Hermione said bitterly.

"It was the Minister's doing, not Minerva's."

"Madame—Olga, how is Severus? Is he alive? When can I see him?"

"He's alive, but he will not see you."

"Not see me?" Hermione stared at her, stunned. "Why?"

"Because he is mortal now. His confrontation with Sybill in her were-form stripped him of his vampiric nature and his powers.  _All_  of his magical powers." She let Hermione fully register this before continuing, "Because he is only mortal, he cannot remain in our world, and because you are now a vampire, you have no place in his."

Only mortal. Tears stung Hermione's eyes. "Severus  _agreed_  to this?"

"He understands," Olga said slowly.

"But what will happen to him?"

"Arrangements for his transition to Muggle society will be made."

"Transition? You talk about him as if he were some wild animal raised in captivity," she exclaimed through her tears. "I have to see him! Please, I want to help him!"

"Your presence would only prolong the inevitable." Olga shook her head. "He is beyond your help."

Hermione sprang from her seat. "Don't tell me that! I don't believe that. I will never believe that! There's always a way!"

"The only way to help is by honoring his gift to you."

"Gift?" Hermione snorted.

"You will come to see it for what it is in time."

"Looks like I'll have no small supply of that from now on," Hermione said, flinging herself back in her seat.

"You will, unless you're impaled, incinerated, or drown in self-pity."

"I'm not drowning in—I'm just saying, I didn't choose this 'gift!' Weasley's  _Confringo_  was fatal—well, it would have been, if Severus hadn't Turned me—and now, you're telling me I can't ever see him again! I have every right to be angry!"

"Forgive me, sometimes, I forget what it felt like, the moment life ebbed away and I became  _străin_ : trapped in a fate I did not choose. Yes," she said, revealing her own set of razor-sharp incisors. "So, you see, I am familiar with your situation. To find your way through, gain mastery over your new powers, you will need guidance, sustenance, and  _protection_. I could use an assistant at the hospital. What say you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione stared at the old Healer. In less than twenty-four hours, she'd been bedded, killed, and turned into a vampire; she'd fallen in and out of love, been expelled from Hogwarts, and just now, offered a position at St. Mungo's. All things, momentous in themselves, but when taken together, would have overwhelmed a  _normal person._  Of course, she was now neither normal nor a person. "I'll fetch my things," she said.

 


	33. Sound and Fury

# Sound and Fury

Days passed. Flat on his back in a narrow cot in St. Mungo's prison wing, Arthur marked the passage of time only by the shifting light and gathering shadows on the ceiling, the antidote for his petrification delayed by the severe depletion of mandrake stores during the war and a growing season hampered by an unnaturally rainy spring. Light flared and light faded, each moment swallowed by the next in an interminable stream. Trapped in a state of suspended animation, he needed neither food nor drink, only hate to sustain him; and though Arthur learned to sleep with his eyes wide, the only dreams that came to him were the words— _he's alive!—_ and visions of a single face:  _He-Who-Should-Be-Staked,_ Severus-bloody-Snape, now newly human and beyond harm's reach.  _Free as a breeze, while I lay here like a bookend!_

Molly and the children came, went, and never came back again.

Rita, however, never left his side and never tired of telling him how he would come back to the world as a hero. "Everyone knows how you risked life and limb to save Sybill, snatching her from the jaws of death—well, fangs in this case," she said to him one day, her emerald silk sleeve billowing out as she brushed a lock of hair from his face. "He's here, Arthur, but I don't know where they're hiding him. I've scoured every inch of this place." She started to say more, but the patter of feet and swish of robes stopped her.

"Peonies? Don't you think the scent's a bit overpowering?" He heard her ask someone.

"I can make them odorless, if you prefer," a wheezy voice answered.

"Yes, do," Rita said. "By the way, how long have you been an Attendant? I don't ever recall seeing you here before."

"I'm a Helping Hedgewitch, a volunteer," the old woman answered. "Rose Hugo."

"Rose, is it? Funny, I've never heard of your group. Do you all have to wear that uniform?" she laughed at the shapeless brown robe and white scarf draped as a wimple.

"Yes, mum."

Rita's sharp perfume wafted over Arthur; he felt her breath in his ear. "Oh, did I mention; the Granger girl  _refused_  to appear for questioning. I can't believe some still think she's an  _innocent_  victim. My sources say, she's been spotted in—" A chair creaked; silk hissed. "Why are you still standing about, woman? Can't a couple have a moment's privacy!"

 _Innocent my arse,_  he thought, although her absence from his upcoming proceedings (whenever they might be), gave him a tremendous sense of relief. Sybill couldn't remember, no one would count the word of a Squib, and Hagrid's reputation made him an unreliable witness. He wasn't sure what the others had  _thought_  they'd seen, only that he'd find a way around them in due time; but without Hermione's testimony, it was a case of Minerva's word against his. Arthur liked those odds. His body warmed at the thought.

Footsteps shuffled off. The room dimmed.

Time passed.

"See what Rose the Helping  _Hedgehag_  brought today. Isn't it lovely?" She leaned over to tickle his face with the frowzy head of a Queen Anne's lace. The chunky silver charms on her bracelet felt cool against his cheek. "I know you're probably sick of hearing it, but I can't thank you enough for your sacrifice and neither can my readers! Singlehandedly, you've made the night safe for wizards again. You're a hero! Believe me, Arthur; those who know the  _truth_  want you reinstated..."

He stopped listening after that. So, Kingsley'd sacked him. Kingsley, whom he'd counted among his closest friends! A door creaked. Someone else entered his room, a swath of white loomed in his peripheral vision, and a scent wafted over him. Patchouli. Was that a flower? Yesterday there'd been phlox or was it peonies? Eyes wide, Arthur sank beneath a cloud of scent.

Today her blouse matched her eyeshadow: chartreuse. Molly always liked that color. Molly...

Light flared; light faded. Time flew away.

"Wake up, sleepy head." He felt a slight pressure, fingers, tightening around his, but could not reciprocate, no matter how hard he steeled himself to do so. Not for the first time, he wished Minerva's body-binding curse would have rendered him completely insensible. How maddening the lilt of a single voice, the sound of footsteps in the hall! Perhaps that was the real curse, he decided, before drifting off again.

 _Wand-fire flashed in the rain...two silhouettes rose on a column of pure lightning...He's alive, he's alive! Not for long!_   _Avada—_

_Totalis!_

The dream always ended the same.

The next time he surfaced, someone was squeezing his hand. "A banner day, darling! They finally have your antidote! Once you're well, we'll start working on that novel!"

"That's enough, Rita," Kingsley's voice boomed outside Arthur's line of vision. Then, to someone else, he said, "Please, go ahead."

"Lucky he froze with his mouth open," said a deep voice, just before pair of wide nostrils containing a great deal of black hair appeared over his head. "Now, you just hold still; this shouldn't hurt a bit, Mr. Weasley." Chuckling at his own joke, the Healer suspended what looked like a small, copper oil can in Arthur's sight line. Once he'd positioned its metal spout to his satisfaction, he began squeezing the handle.

Mandrake potion, oily and bitter, sluiced over his tongue. A curious lightness spread over him at first, but then the antidote seeped into his windpipe. Fearing he was about to drown in his own cure, Arthur rolled over, gagging.

He'd rolled over!

With an excited whoop, Rita descended on him. "Welcome back to the world, Arthur!"

"The man's just been unfrozen for the first time in months. Let him be," Kingsley said.

 _"Months?"_  Arthur bolted upright. While Rita plumped his pillows and propped him up, he gazed about his room for the first time.

Room? Cell was more like it, only with whitewashed walls. To his left was a small, wooden table. A squat vase filled with wilted daisies sat atop it. An unpadded, armed chair sat in front of the table, and on the wall behind the chair, a barred window framed a sky that almost matched Kingsley's robes. "Months, you say," he said again, hoarsely, now noticing that the door to his room also had a wired glass window set in it.

"Tomorrow's Samhain," Rita said, settling down beside him. Today she wore a tight green suit and had a brooch made of peacock feathers pinned to her lapel. Her lips and cheeks were rosy, but dark circles ringed her eyes.

"October," he echoed, as he reached up to stroke her face. "You've stayed with me all this time?"

"Yes, she's been a regular martyr to your cause," Kingsley said, inching closer to the foot of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Arthur stretched; he rubbed his arms. "A bit stiff, but well enough to stand trial, I suppose."

"About that..." He cleared his throat. "Since no one knew when you would be well again, I convened the Wizengamot in your absence. After reviewing the allegations and finding most of the 'evidence' circumstantial at best, they decided to commute your sentence."

"That's fabulous news, Minister!" Rita practically bounced off the bed and would've given Kingsley a bear hug, had he not stopped her with a stern look.

"No. I've not finished. Your commutation is contingent upon certain conditions." He strode over to the chair but did not sit. "Due to the serious injuries you sustained in your  _rescue_  of Sybill Trelawney, a mission during which you  _killed_  co-conspirators Greyback and Snape in  _self-defense_ —"

"Killed? But Snape's still alive! He's still free!" Arthur spluttered.

"It's absolutely essential that those in our world believe that Severus is dead. Rita's done a marvelous job of shaping public opinion. Now, since you are unable to carry out your duties as Head of Magical Law Enforcement, you will be reinstated as Curator in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. Your expertise in that area is indisputable, Arthur."

"Curator?" The word soured on his tongue.

"Be grateful you have a job at all. You've no idea the lengths I've had to go to on your behalf." Robes swishing, Kingsley sank into the chair.

"I don't see any of this sitting well with McGonagall. How did you buy her silence?"

Kingsley sighed. "As I said before: conditions. Mind you, what I'm about to say is strictly  _off_  the record," he said, looking pointedly in Rita's direction. "In the matter of your destruction of Miss Granger's personal property, I was forced to concede—well, let's just say a certain compromise had to be reached." His hand waved in midair for a moment, but then fell to his lap. "Minerva's fervidness on the subject was most formidable. In the end, I had no choice but to confiscate your wand for the remainder of your life. I'm sorry." He looked pleadingly at Arthur.

"Damn her," he said.

"Oh, don't look so dour, Arthur it's only your  _wand_! Why, wizards live with the loss of much worse every day! I don't like it any more than you do, but if any of that other business with Trelawney or Snape could be substantiated, you'd be French kissing a Dementor right now! And while your position is not ideal, it does have its  _advantages."_

"Advantages?" Weasley stared at him, gob-smacked.

"Straight away, I can think of two: the ability to move freely between the mortal and magical worlds, and the fact that a man can't die  _twice_  in one—" He stopped as an elderly witch bustled in with a vase brimming with marigolds and geraniums.

"Don't you people ever knock?" Rita snapped. "And we'll be leaving soon, so you can take your weeds elsewhere."

"My apologies," she mumbled, backing away. No one noticed how her hands tightened around the fluted glass vase or how, once in the hall, she hid around a corner and listened. 

"Any news of where they've hidden him?"

"Somewhere in the midlands," Rita said. "I'll know more by tonight."

"Wherever he is, Hermione will be with him. I'll bet she's Turned him already," Arthur said in low voice. "How am I supposed to fight  _two_  vampires without a wand!"

"Arthur, are you absolutely certain Hermione's a vampire?"

"I shot her, Kingsley—by accident, of course. The blood loss alone should've killed her but by the time I found them in the forest, her injury had completely healed! Severus did that and more besides. You didn't see them, the way they..." He shuddered. "I don't know enough wandless magic to defeat the pair of them! I need backup!"

"I can't risk it. We're 'three on a match' as it is. This  _your_  mess, Arthur. I'm counting on you to clean it up," Kingsley whispered. "No loose ends this time: no mistakes and no  _witnesses_!"

The Helping Hedgewitch didn't wait to hear more. With a speed belying her years, she ran down the corridor and slipped through a fire door. Once inside the gloomy stairwell, which only a few staff members used to access the upper floors, Hermione dropped the old age glamour that allowed her to walk in daylight without suffering severe burns and let her wimple fall about her neck like a scarf. Although Olga had promised that her sensitivity would lessen over time, Hermione liked the anonymity and lately, the concealment of another condition that both of her magical disguises afforded.

That, along with the ability to  _feel_ time in the rise and fall of each day's light, and not needing to sleep every night. Not having to sleep so much gave her a great deal of reading time. She'd searched for a cure for vampirism at first, but when she found nothing in Olga's private collection, resigned herself not only to her that fate but also the even more astonishing one growing inside her. Now, almost four months after what she'd taken to calling the "Second Siege" at Hogwarts, Hermione had begun to actually appreciate the powers that came with her new life. Correction:  _un_ life. That's what Severus had called it.

Severus. The thought of him made her heart wrench. She'd taken to going out at night: walking the streets, eavesdropping on others' thoughts, ever hopeful for a clue to his whereabouts. Now he was in danger again—real danger! Weasley wouldn't stop hunting him and Olga wouldn't tell her where he'd gone, no matter how hard she pleaded. Nor could she ask Harry for help. Not that he wasn't sympathetic to her plight, he  _was_ , just from afar. Too far "afar." According to his last letter, he planned to stay in Romania until Christmas. Bitterly, she wondered just how sympathetic he would be in closer quarters.

The thought struck her like a thunderbolt. Help, however grudgingly given, was better than none at all. Turning on her heel, Hermione vanished.

When she materialized in Grimmauld Place, she didn't have to drag its caretaker from the cupboard: he met her in the hall, as if he'd been expecting her all along.

"Mistress Succubus," Kreacher said, drawing out the last letter of each word. "Come to quench your thirst?"

It was an improvement over  _Mudblood_ , she decided. "No, Kreacher, but I do have a task for you. A rather special one. Well, it's not a task, exactly, it's more of a secret mission. That is, if you're up to it."

"Kreacher lives to serve the House of Potter." He turned, motioning for her to follow and muttering something under his breath about half-bloods and bloodsucking fiends.

The parlour at Grimmauld Place was just as dingy as she remembered and worse for the dust that blanketed every stick of furniture, turning the couches a sickly shade of mauve and the wallpaper a flat, depressing grey. Even the windows hadn't been spared, their smeared panes making the room all the more dark and dismal. After settling on the velvet upholstered piano bench and releasing a small cloud of fug, she said, "I hate to be a bother; I know how  _busy_  you must be, keeping the place up while Harry's gone." As Kreacher dragged a small stool from the fireplace corner, she glanced at the piano. Keys weren't supposed to be  _fuzzy._  "It's just so important, I can't entrust it to just anyone. I'm sure you understand."

Ears twitching, he climbed atop the stool. "Kreacher is listening."

 _Here goes nothing,_  she thought. "Remember the time you found Mundungus Fletcher for Harry?"

"The thief!" Kreacher shook his fist and made a low growl in his throat.

"I know that he was in the magical world when you found him, but I was wondering, Kreacher: could you do the same thing—find someone—in the human world?"

"Kreacher can enter the human world. Who does Mistress seek?"

"Severus Snape."

Ears drooping, the ancient house elf bowed his head. "Master Snape is dead, killed by the Dark Lord." 

"No, he's not dead. He never was." Then Hermione told him everything that had happened to Severus, including her would-have-been-death at Weasley's hands. "He's being released from hospital today, but I overheard him plotting to kill Severus with Rita Skeeter and the Minister for Magic. Severus is in terrible danger, Kreacher. I need you to find him!"

"Kreacher liked Master Snape. Master Snape always had a kind word for Kreacher." Huge, salty tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed on the rug. Hermione stared, stunned by the depth of his emotional response. He wiped his nose with the hem of his threadbare tunic and then looked up at her. "Does Mistress want Kreacher to bring Master Snape here?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Actually, I had hoped that you could stay with him. Protect him."

He shook his head. "Kreacher cannot serve a human master."

"But he's powerless!" Hermione slid off the bench and knelt before him. "Please!" In her haste, she did not notice that her robe had opened.

"It is forbidden, Mistress. Kreacher is very sorry that he cannot help Master Snape." Moaning, he began to shred one of his floppy ears with his ragged fingernails.

"Stop. Please." Hermione grabbed the offending hand. "Then just _find_  him, Kreacher and report back to me." 

Kreacher raised his arm, snapped his fingers, and vanished.

Thinking he would return soon, Hermione waited, listening to the clock's slow tick and the sounds of passing cars on the street. Severus was out there, somewhere. She only hoped Kreacher would get to him in time.

An hour passed; then another. Hermione flung herself from the bench with an exasperated huff and started pacing the length of the long room. Finally, she looked at the pattern she'd made in the dust on the Persian carpet.

A lemniscate.

An image of a ghostly dragon rose in her mind. Only this time, she'd be the one leading him, setting him on the path with no end, no beginning. Did he still think of her? Did he still want her? Was she strong enough? Every time she lay to rest, she could feel his touch, his kisses, and the tug of his fangs as he drank her blood: every stolen moment they'd shared, shivering her to her bones. Thrusting her arm out, Hermione whispered,  _"Expecto Patronum."_

A spectral otter appeared at first, swimming around the chandelier. As it dove, a larger shape burst through and dispersed it: a winged dragon with glittering scales. It opened its mouth in a silent roar, spewing rings of smoke.

Time slowed to a crawl; still Kreacher did not come. Hermione looked at the clock. Almost seven. Olga would be expecting her soon.

The sun's last orange rays faded into dusk. Finally, Kreacher returned, wearing a nightshirt two sizes too large.

"You found him!" Hermione rushed over to the old elf. "And he freed you!"

"Master Snape tried to free Kreacher, but being human, he could not," he said, gathering the garment's capacious folds about him lovingly. He'd slipped it on over his filthy sackcloth tunic. The slit down its front reached past its hem and its ruffled sleeves, frayed at the ends, gave him the appearance of a shrunken, evil clown.

"So you...spoke to him?"

"Master Snape made tea. He told Kreacher many things."

"But when Olga told me our world was closed to him, I thought that meant he could no longer see..." Hermione clenched her fists. What other lies had Olga told her to keep them apart?

"He remembers," Kreacher said, slowly. "Memory is a kind of magic, Mistress, only very small." He rubbed one of the nightshirt's worn sleeves against his face. "So soft!"

"What did he say?"

Kreacher looked up. "He had two messages for you, Mistress. The first concerns his location: he resides in the house of his father."

"His  _father's_  house? And exactly where is that?"

Kreacher beamed, revealing a set of the most crooked, unkempt teeth that Hermione had ever seen. Teeth weren't supposed to be  _furry._  "In plain sight. He said it would come to you in time."

"But he doesn't have much time left! Did you tell him that?"

"That is his second message, Mistress. He said he does not fear death."

"Where is he, Kreacher? Don't make me use these." Curling back her upper lip, she flashed her canines.

"Cokeworth, Mistress! In the midlands." He backed away, cowering. "His father's house is on Spinner's End!"

"Thank you, Kreacher. You've been a tremendous help." She rose, unwound the gauzy scarf that served as part of her work uniform, and draped it over his shoulders. "Here. You've earned this. Be happy in your life as a free elf."

Floating lanterns were already blazing when she appeared outside the gift shop in St. Mungo's foyer. Olga was waiting too, pretending to peruse a book display in one of the shop windows.

 _You know._  Her voice curled inside Hermione's head.

_You lied to me!_

_To protect you._ Turning, Olga beckoned Hermione to join her at the window.  _I hear your cries for him, I know where you walk at night, and now, you present your face to the world. Foolish girl! Your enemies are not blind!_

"Then you know what I have to do. Not all of us got off this easily," Hermione said, indicating the poetry books bearing Gilderoy Lockhart's name and the title,  _Just Remember I Love You_. Below it was a picture of him kissing a blushing and bespectacled, but pleasantly flustered Sybill Trelawney.

"Their love is like the autumn leaves." Olga shrugged and tucked her hands into the folds of her long, white sleeves. Then, turning from the window, she started down the foyer, towards the entrance to the Behavioral Wing. "What you would attempt is extremely dangerous."

Hermione followed. "But it can be done!"

"His power protects the child inside you, all that allows life to flourish in a dead womb. Power that will recognize and  _return_  to its true master." She stopped. Her gold eyes locked with Hermione's. "Immortality is never free. Have you counted that cost?"

"The only thing I fear is an eternity without him."

 

 


	34. Samhain

# Samhain

The day October ended dawned like any other: the moon slipped below the horizon, the sky lightened to grey, and in the distance, a whistle shrilled the start of another day's toil for the working poor. The days were getting shorter now, the nights biting down with intention. He turned on his side, melted the frost on the tiny window beside his bed with the palm of his hand, and watched the mill workers shuffle by on the street below, the ghostly puffs of their breath mingling with the smoke from their pipes and cigarettes. Today, he would not count himself among their slow processional, a living metaphor for man's forward slog into fate's inescapable maw. One way or another, his end would come much sooner, as swiftly as night fell.

Knowing did not make it any easier.

He knew the attack  _would_  happen after nightfall. Weasley was too cowardly to risk a daylight confrontation. Although Severus could not meet him as an equal, he was not going down without a fight nor would his pride allow Hermione to battle in his stead. He didn't want her come at all but could no more hold her off than he could will the stoppage of time. The best he could do was arm himself against the inevitable. He made a mental list of items he'd need from the local chemist's, then threw off his covers and rolled out of bed, mindless of the cold planks beneath his bare feet.

After shrugging on his favorite woolen robe, a Black Watch plaid, whose patches needed patching, he padded downstairs, refreshed the fire in the grate, and slipped into the tiny kitchen to start the coffeemaker. It, along with electricity, was one of the few modern conveniences he allowed himself. While waiting for it to brew, he fetched the morning paper from the stoop.

A few minutes later, wreathed in wisps of Dark Roast, Severus settled into his favorite armchair by the fire and proceeded to bury his beaklike nose in the  _Cokeworth Clarion._  Like all Muggle papers, its photos were still; each subject comprised of a matrix of pinpricks in varying shades of grey, black, and white. The type on its cheap paper never failed to smear and its reporters, ever eager to cater to the whims of their largely uneducated, indiscriminate subscribership, obliged by cramming its columns with the kind of stories that rivaled  _The Daily Prophet's_ predilection for anonymous sources and absence of fact checking. Despite the  _Clarion's_  obvious shortcomings, Severus sometimes detected hints of the magical world in its accounts of hauntings, unexplained phenomena, and alien abductions.

Hints but never anything substantial. The old Healer had made good on her intentions to keep Hermione away and her admonitions about his breaching the wards proved disturbingly true: King's Cross Station was just another rail stop; the wall outside where Diagon Alley should have been was just an expanse of bricks and mortar. No thin spots signaled to him the last time he walked those narrow, London streets; no portals opened and no familiar arms reached out to beckon him inside.

No one and nothing that is, until yesterday.

Tea with Kreacher! The sheer absurdity of it made him laugh, but the irascible old house elf had given him the most hope he'd had in months and not just the hope of seeing Hermione again. Truthfully, thinking about that now filled him with more dread than having to face Weasley as a mere mortal.

Then a headline caught his eye:

**COKEWORTH TEEN IS CULT'S THIRTEENTH**

_COKEWORTH–A local girl is dead this morning, the latest victim in a series of slayings that many believe are the work of a traveling satanic cult. Responding to the upscale Chatham Park District late last night on an anonymous tip, police found the badly mutilated body of a teenage girl, whose name is being withheld pending identification and family notification. Discovered only a few yards from a well-lit walking path in the district's eponymous park, the child suffered a broken neck, multiple stab wounds to her upper body, and severe blood loss. When asked if they were pursuing any suspects in what is now the thirteenth in a string of brutal, ritualistic murders that have plagued Surrey, Midsomer, and surrounding communities since late May..._

The hair on his nape prickled.  _Brutal...blood loss._  He didn't have to read between the lines to know what the article's author meant by stab wounds: the description screamed vampire. Chatham Park was just down the street, a less than five-minute walk from his home! Was this Weasley's way of toying with him? He'd had no qualms about making a werewolf his personal foot soldier or killing Hermione. Still, it seemed unlikely he would tip his hand so blatantly.

Unless he wasn't planning to act alone.

Severus ran down the potential list of wizards who wanted him dead. Aside from Skeeter and Shacklebolt, he couldn't think of anyone else Weasley would  _want_  to enlist as an accomplice, unless he was planning to dispose of said witness afterward.

Scanning the article again, three words caught his eye.  _Little Whinging_  was in Surrey and late May... A vision of Petunia as an undead wretch driven solely by appetite made him shudder. He'd drained her dry and hadn't given her a drop of his blood: how could she have survived?

 _How many others have there been?_  Hermione's accusation rankled like a thorn in his mind.

Were there others? Sirelings who might want to seek out their newly human maker for one, last, little nip. The thought of the Malfoys as vampires made his skin crawl.

He dropped the offending section on a stack of yellowing newsprint beside his chair. Intending to lose himself in the daily crossword, he grabbed a pen from a nearby side table, but as he began folding the paper into a neat rectangle, a celestial blue banner sprinkled with stars caught his eye: the horoscope written by the  _Clarion's_ resident astrologer and "psychic intuitive," Zaphira Montolov. Poised over a crystal ball in the photograph (scrying planetary movements, no doubt), Zaphira's kohl-rimmed eyes regarded him with manic intensity, as if multiple portents were about to fly out her ears, zing about the room, and burst into showers of multicolored sparks. For a moment, Severus was almost sorry the picture couldn't move or speak, and while he hated predictions on principle, he could not stop his gaze from zeroing in on her one-fate-fits-all prediction under Capricorn:

_You deserve what you have. Revel in your accomplishments._

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the flames.

Sybill had been one of those "accomplishments." Had she survived? If so, how well had she acclimated to her transformation, to the discovery of being  _only_  human? Severus stretched his thoughts back to early May and the single choice from which all others toppled like dominoes. Of course, if he  _hadn't_ Turned himself, he'd be dead. There was no need to belabor that point or feel any shade of survivor's remorse, but if he lost Hermione now, his future prospects would be bleak, indeed. He had a degree from an institution that didn't exist, a vocation he could not practice because  _there were no such things_ as magic or wizards, and a sitting room filled from floor to ceiling with reminders of powers he no longer possessed. Spells were just words; a wand just a stick!

His stomach rumbled.

He didn't want to eat but would have to if he wanted to maintain his strength. With a groan, he stomped over stacks of books and magazines on his way to the kitchen. A cast iron skillet sat on the stovetop, but a quick peek in the icebox told him he was out of bread, cheese, and eggs—he'd used up the last of those for yesterday's tea—and an inventory of the cupboards produced only a tin of sardines.

He gashed his finger, trying to open the tin.

A school of oily, silver fish flew across the kitchen, adding another stain to the wallpaper's already fly-speckled collection, and without the aid of  _any_ magical intervention. Severus stuck the injured digit in his mouth and sucked, willing the familiar warmth to wash over him, the dizzying, almost orgasmic surge of pure power contained in a red pool of protein, minerals, and platelets.

Except for a great deal of dribbling, nothing happened, except now he'd need a sticking plaster: one more thing to add to the growing list of essential _human_  things he didn't have! Sighing, he rolled up his sleeve and rinsed his finger at the tap. Water trickled down his wrist, forcing his attention to a patch of pale, unblemished skin on his inner forearm, another part of his past obliterated: his Dark Mark.

During their extended chat, he'd shown his arm to Kreacher, offering the absence of skull and snake as proof of powers lost: 'When Sybill bit me, the werewolf in her took the wizard in me, along with the vampire. I've lost my magic, my powers, Hermione: everything.'

Kreacher, though, had had other ideas. 'Magic is never lost. Either Master Snape put his power in Mistress—'

'Put my power in her?' He groaned. 'I made Hermione a vampire in an act of pure selfishness! I knew she didn't want to be one but I couldn't let her go—I wouldn't let her die. I took her humanity, her maidenhead, her chance to live a normal life, and now you're saying that somehow, even without a soul, I managed to make her a Horcrux?' The thought saddened him tremendously. Gods, he'd had his fill of bloody Horcruxes!

'A Horcrux is made in hatred by those who fear death,' the elf said, beady eyes glinting. 'Perhaps something in Mistress pulled Master's power in.'

'Pulled it in?' In his over two-decade immersion in the Dark Arts, he'd never heard of such a thing. 'For what purpose, Kreacher?'

'Protection.'

'Doubtful. Hermione's powers would be formidable on their own. Are you certain this isn't her way of extracting revenge? Truly, I wouldn't blame her if she wanted to debase me or even if she wanted me dead.'

'Not revenge, Master: reclamation! Mistress will return Master's power in time.' The elf leaned back in his chair and laughed.

'I'm glad you find my ignorance so amusing.' Returned at her discretion, when and  _if_ she bloody well liked, it sure sounded like revenge. He crossed his arms and glared, but the action only elicited more peals of glee from his guest.

'Well, if it's not retribution, then what is it? What does one call this drawing out of power?'

Kreacher stopped laughing. Gasping, he wiped his eyes. 'Master truly does not know?'

'No. Please, Kreacher, what is this magic? Don't keep me in suspense a moment longer. Give it a name.'

His features had softened then, taking on an almost-pitying quality, his sallowness deepening, becoming ruddy—was he blushing?

Slowly, almost shyly, Kreacher reached across the table, patted his arm, and said a single word: 'Conception.'

 

**Part II**

 

Morning slipped into afternoon, dragging clouds behind it. In London, a bell outside the Ministry for Magic tolled the hour.

Deep in his cluttered, basement office and bathed in a pool of lantern light, Arthur Weasley scowled at his latest acquisition. It was an L-shaped object that had two small levers: one sitting atop its long, steel tube and one below, hanging in front of its polished wooden grip. Beneath the top lever and to one side was another, more interesting part, a secret compartment of sorts that he could pull out and spin. Said compartment was the reason behind his scowl. It contained six smaller partitions, six tubular chambers that tapered at the bottom: six spaces for six  _specific_ bullets.

That was the problem.

He'd found an assortment of ammunition in a box labeled, "Mortal Implements," beneath his worktable. Most of these were lead balls, no bigger than Knuts, although a few were the size of Droobles, and the tiniest came wrapped in bright-colored plastic coats. None of them fit, however. He needed something longer and slimmer, but so far, those he'd found nestled inside a black leather sling were too fat and the ones he'd found in a smaller box inside a drawer, were far too short.

Sighing, he slid off his stool, crossed to an Apothecary-style chest, and began rifling through its many drawers. In one of these, he found a handful of brass-colored projectiles that looked as though they might fit. Taking them back, he stood at the table and wearily slipped one into the chamber.

A perfect fit!

Its five mates took their places in the surrounding chambers in quick succession and when Arthur closed the secret compartment, the "cylinder" he'd read so much about, it made a sharp click. Finally, the promise of closure lay in the palm of his hand!

"Working on a Saturday? My, you are dedicated." Rita peeked around the doorway. "Are you sure you know how to use that thing, darling?"

"Oh, yes. They're all the rage in Muggle crime novels! You just press this top lever all the way down and after that, all you have to do is point, squeeze this lower lever in the ring here, and bang! 'High-speed lead therapy:' that's what the Muggles call it. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, when she didn't enter the room. Carefully, he placed the pistol on the table. "All clear! Come in and give us a hug."

"I don't know why you feel you need a gun, when the  _wand_  I gave you would do a proper job," Rita said, nuzzling against him.

"Shh! Someone might hear you! From what I've read, taking a blast from one of these is more excruciating than the Cruciatus Curse!" He nodded to the gun, admiring how it gleamed in the light. "I'm saving the wand for Hermione."

Breaking from him, Rita said, "That's what I came to tell you: she's not  _there._  He's the only one who goes in or out—my source confirmed it."

"She will be by tonight, I'm sure. Thanks to you, I'll be ready." 

"I should come with you," she said, pressing close to him.

"No. You should stay as far away from Spinner's End as possible. If things go pear-shaped, I don't want you implicated." He kissed the top of her head.

"What do you think Severus is doing right now?" She looked up at him. "You know, I heard he's working at the  _mill,_  stacking bolts of cloth all day. Can you believe it? Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" She giggled.

"Excellent." Arthur grinned. "He can use that cloth as his winding sheet."

"Just promise me that you'll be careful."

"Always," he said.

 


	35. Mortal Implements

**  
Mortal Implements**

 

Morning slipped into afternoon, dragging clouds behind it. In London, a bell outside the Ministry for Magic tolled the hour.

Deep in his cluttered, basement office and bathed in a pool of lantern light, Arthur Weasley scowled at his latest acquisition. It was an L-shaped object that had two small levers: one sitting atop its long, steel tube and one below, hanging in front of its polished wooden grip. Beneath the top lever and to one side was another, more interesting part, a secret compartment of sorts that he could pull out and spin round. Said compartment was the reason behind his scowl. It contained six smaller partitions, six tubular chambers that tapered at the bottom: six spaces for six  _specific_ bullets.

That was the problem.

He'd found an assortment of ammunition in a box labeled, "Mortal Implements," beneath his worktable. Most of these were lead balls, no bigger than Knuts, but a few were Drooble-sized. The tiniest ones came wrapped in bright-colored plastic coats. None of them fit, however. He needed something longer, slimmer, and pointed at the end, but so far, those he’d found nestled inside a black leather sling were too fat and the ones he'd found in a smaller box inside a drawer, were far too short.

Sighing, he slid off his stool, crossed to an Apothecary-style chest, and began rifling through its many drawers. In one of these, he found a handful of brass-colored projectiles that looked as though they might fit. Taking them back, he stood at the table and wearily slipped one into the chamber.

It went in easily!

Its five mates took their places in the surrounding chambers in quick succession and when Arthur closed the secret compartment, the “cylinder” he’d read so much about, it made a sharp click. Finally, the promise of closure lay in the palm of his hand! “Yes,” he cried. “A perfect fit!”

“Working on a Saturday? My, you are dedicated,” Rita said peering around the doorway. “Are you sure you know how to use that, darling?”

“Oh, yes. They're in all the Muggle crime novels! You just press this top lever all the way down and after that, all you have to do is point, squeeze this lower lever in the ring here, and bang! High-speed lead therapy—that’s what the Muggles call it. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you,” he said, when she didn’t move. Carefully, he placed the pistol on the table. “All clear! Come in and give us a hug.”

“I don't know why you feel you need a gun, when the  _wand_  I gave you would do a proper job,” Rita said, nuzzling against him.

“Shh! Someone might hear you! Besides, I want Snape to die like a man. From what I've read, a blast from one of these is more excruciating than the Cruciatus Curse!” He nodded to the gun, admiring how it gleamed in the light. “I'm saving the wand for Hermione.”

Breaking from him, Rita said, “That's what I came to tell you: she's not  _there._  He's the only one who goes in or out—one of my sources confirmed it.”

“She will be by tonight; I'm sure. Thanks to you, I'll be ready.” He patted his chest over his sweater.

“I should come with you,” she said, pressing close to him.

“No. You should stay as far away from Spinner's End as possible. If things go pear-shaped, I don't want you implicated.” He kissed the top of her head.

“What do you think Severus is doing right now?” She looked up at him. “You know, I heard he's working at the  _mill,_  stacking bolts of cloth all day. Can you believe it? Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” She giggled.

“Excellent.” Arthur grinned. “He can use that cloth as his winding sheet.”

“Just promise me that you'll be careful.”

“Always,” he said.

 


	36. Chatham Park

# Chatham Park

 

Gods, what a racket! It seemed as if every hour on the hour, they'd driven by the house, blasting the same message on the patrol car's loudspeaker: "Effective immediately, a sundown curfew is in effect for all Cokeworth residents under the age of eighteen. Repeat, after sundown, no children under age eighteen allowed on the streets. Have a safe and happy Halloween." When the Coppers left off, a miniature horde of monsters, clowns, and faerie princesses picked up, banging on the door, demanding tricks or treats, all determined to collect as many free goodies as possible before darkness forced them back inside. Having nothing to give, Severus had decided to wait them out.

By half-three, when the shadows began to lengthen, and the knocks and whoops finally fell silent, Severus shrugged on his long coat and stepped outside. Two mothers hurried past, shooing a gaggle of grease-painted stragglers home, but he saw nothing unnatural lurking about. Jack-o-Lanterns flashed fanged grins or screamed silently from nearby stoops and plastic ghosts danced in the wind. After locking the door, he headed down the dim alley beside his house. Spinner's End was just one row of homes built on a maze of switchback lanes and streets.

Avoiding the main thoroughfares and sticking to the alleys gave him an almost straight route to the now-infamous park, which was also the shortest way to the chemist's. He guessed he had about an hour of daylight left. If he hurried, he might make it home by dark.

Familiarity had its advantages and Severus reached the small footbridge at the Spinner's End side of the park in no time at all. Here too, the Coppers had left their mark: signs tacked on either side of it advised residents about the curfew in bold, block letters and warned that the park now closed to all foot traffic between sundown and sunup. Severus hurried across, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the boards.

As he started into the park, no joggers in neon warm-up jackets and matching headbands huffed and puffed past, no Walkman-wearing dog walkers scolded their charges or scooped their droppings into nearby trash bins, and the small swing set, which usually teemed with children on the weekend, looked terribly forlorn with only the wind to push its red plastic seats. Except for an old woman who sat knitting on one of the wooden benches near the play area, the park was completely deserted, as barren of life as the trees whose dry leaves littered the walkway. She did not look up at his approach and Severus rushed by without giving her a second glance.

Although there was still light without, beneath the interlacing limbs that formed a long and skeletal archway over the main path, murky dusk prevailed, an unnatural twilight that seemed to amplify the crunch of every leaf or snap of every stick tenfold. Although his were the only footsteps that sounded against the paving stones, Severus knew that he was not alone. "Is that you, Hermione? Are you there?" he whispered, peering through the tree trunks.

No one answered. The wind hissed, branches groaned, and the lights that flickered on either side of him emitted a ghostly hum. Unable to shake the feeling that someone or something was watching, carefully monitoring his progress, Severus quickened his pace.

Soon, the trees thinned and he passed a gazing pool whose waters sat silent and unlit. Here, more paths spread out, weaving their way through a gallery of shrubs that had been pruned into twisted, abstract shapes. Now shrouded in burlap to guard against the frost, they loomed over him, casting long and sinister shadows.

Beyond them, Severus could see hear the rush of passing cars and see a pair of tall, iron gates. As he drew nearer, an area cordoned off with yellow tape, and ringed with bunches of flowers and votive candles caught his eye. Here, he stopped to catch his breath at the impromptu altar of remembrance constructed by friends and neighbors. The girl from the paper, this was where she died, so close to the street, to help, to life. Why hadn't she cried out? Then his eyes fell on an envelope atop one of the bouquets. At least now, she had a name: Ivy Morris. Bowing his head, Severus whispered, "I'm sorry, Ivy. I never meant to create the creature that killed you."

A few yards from where he stood, the wind whipped a pile of leaves into a dervish.

Not wanting to see what else might rise with them; Severus hurried through the gates and walked briskly down Chatham's main street, ignoring the sandwich vendor's cart and the aroma of fish and chips from a nearby kiosk. Hunger gnawed at his stomach and though he'd eaten nothing all day, Severus suddenly found that he had no appetite. Now, dusk was falling fast, the air thickening, imbuing everything with a drowsy, dreamlike quality. A dream that would fast become a nightmare once the light faded. He glanced at the clock on a nearby bank's sign. Its red numbers proclaimed the hour neither wrong nor right, but simply 4:06.

The sun would set in thirty minutes. Bugger. He was not going to be home before dark.

The chemist's was just two doors down but as he passed the electronics store, something startled him and made him stop. Beyond the bank of blue TV screens, a transparency hovered on the glass, a living ghost, a byproduct of his newly installed soul, and an unpleasant reminder of the frailty of his all-too human condition: his reflection. Because he was _only_  a man—helpless, haunted, and soon-to-be hunted. He knew he'd been living on borrowed time ever since his unfortunate transfiguration and a passing patrol car, blasting its curfew message, only underscored just how fast time was running out for him.

A car's backfire made him jump in his skin and the wind rose, tearing at flags and awnings along the street. As Severus started away, a portly man, hunched against the cold, tipped his cap as he bustled past and said, "Good evenin', Rev'rund."

 _Reverend? Severus nodded his greeting and then turned to catch his reflection again._ In his long, black coat and matching trousers, he certainly looked the part. Static suddenly replaced every picture across every TV screen and something jabbed him in the small of his back.

"Reverend? That's rich."

Not a backfire, then. Turning from the window, he found himself face to face with another ghost, one wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark brown canvas coat. "Arthur. Let's get this over with. I know just the place." Motioning for him to follow, Severus squared his shoulders, turned his back on Weasley, and slowly, began walking back towards Chatham Park.

 

 


	37. Where Journeys End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now and forever, the wonderful world of Harry Potter is the intellectual property of the estimable Jo Rowling. I’ve just been borrowing her characters for a gothic-inspired romp of my own.
> 
> Welcome to the final chapter, one I found myself approaching with equal parts relief and sadness. Relief because—Yay! It’s finally finished!—and sadness because after having spent so much time with these characters, it’s hard to let them go.
> 
> To all who added Vespertine to their favorites or watch lists, all who cared enough to leave their reviews and votes, or who were content with enjoying the story in perfect anonymity, thank you all so very much! I am truly grateful for your loyalty and your readership.

 

# Where Journeys End

 

Weasley went after Severus in a heartbeat. Catching up, he grabbed him roughly by the coat sleeve and spun him around. "Don't even think of running away. I'm not afraid to use my wand or this." He opened his coat slightly, allowing Severus to see the butt end of the revolver.

"A gun, Arthur?" Although he willed his features into an inscrutable mask, his stomach was busily tying itself in knots. Either weapon on its own would have made his captor a formidable adversary, especially against an unarmed opponent.

"Keep your voice down—and keep moving!" Steering him by the elbow, Weasley urged him forward.

Staring straight ahead, Severus trudged on, his mind already forming a plan, desperate in its inception and deadly if it failed, but one that didn't hinge on Hermione's intervention. That is, if she came at all. He knew that she would, though part of him still hoped that she would not.

The pavement became uneven as they neared the fish kiosk and its owner had set out the day's garbage. Pretending to catch his boot on one of the black plastic bags, Severus stumbled and fell, skinning his palms raw.

"For the love of Merlin, get up!" He reached for Severus but the sound of screams and rapidly approaching footsteps stopped him. Two women, both wearing waitress uniforms, hurried to meet them.

"What happened, sir? Are you alright?" one asked, as she knelt beside Severus.

"He's bleeding," said the other, who grimaced over her friend's back before turning to Arthur. "Do you think he hit his head?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's just had one too many Halloween spirits," Weasley said, yanking Severus up by the back of his coat. "I should really get him home. Beautiful night for a stroll, isn't it?" He tipped his hat to them. "Ladies."

A nervous glance passed between the women. Both shot Weasley odd looks and gave him a wide berth before scurrying on their way.

Sighing, now bleeding, Severus resumed his forced march but when he reached the gate to the park, instead of turning in, he kept moving forward.

Once again, a cruel hand pulled him back. "Your house is this way."

"But the place I mentioned earlier, there's a cemetery..." He gestured down the street.

"Where Hermione's lying in wait? Do you really think I'd let you lead me into a trap," Weasley harshed in his ear. "I have a fiery reckoning planned for her, once I've finished with you."

"But the police will be locking the gates soon," he said, wary of the shadows that crouched at the edge of every lamplit pool.

"Then we'd better get moving. What's the matter, Snape, afraid of the dark?" Weasley unsheathed the pistol and poked him in the ribs. "Go!"

The two men veered left and passed beneath the arched gate, one of them mindless of the makeshift memorial ringed with crime scene tape. With Severus leading, they moved swiftly through the shrub gallery and out of sight, stopping only at the gazing pool, when an air raid siren wailed, signaling curfew.

"What in Merlin's name was that?"

"It's how they start the Halloween parade, of course." While Weasley squinted up at the sky, he dipped his hands into the water and quickly scrubbed them, careful to worry new wounds as well as an old one. When finished, he shook his hands dry. "Honestly, Arthur, I thought you knew everything about Muggle customs."

"Shut it—and stop dilly-dallying!"

Once they left the gazing pool, the crackling of dead leaves beneath their feet became almost deafening. They walked on, shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking for what seemed a long time. As the woods thickened and closed in, the uneasy feeling of being hunted fell over Severus again.  _I know you're here,_  he thought.  _Come on!_  Slowing his pace as much as he dared, he squeezed the finger he'd cut on the sardine tin. Blood spattered against the leaves.

"Getting tired? You'll have plenty of rest, soon enough."

The business end of the pistol urged him to quicken his pace.

"Murder leaves a mark, you know."

"Well, you'd know all about Dark Marks wouldn't you?"

Ignoring him, Severus continued, "Not a mark you can see of course, but a heaviness that you carry long after the red deed's done: a stone in your heart, a sinker in your soul. Its weight will never leave you and over time will crush even the—"

"Enough," Weasley snapped. "When you try to sound like Dumbledore, I can smell the lie in every word. You—you of all people—you have no right!"

"He asked me to kill him, Arthur. I did it out of love," he said, drawing out the last word to maximize its annoyance potential. "Speaking of which, what  _does_  the lovely Molly have to say about your latest hunting expedition?" When Weasley only glared at him stonily, he said, "Oh, so she's no longer  _aware_  of how you spend your nights or with  _whom_. You can blame that on me too, if you'd like: tell her that you fell under another's thrall while you were stalking me like some latter day Van Helsing."

They rounded a corner. The swing set came into view. Its metal supports gleamed dully in the lamp light. Now, Weasley rounded on him, blocking his path. "It  _is_ your fault! It's  _all_  your fault! You could have stopped the war and saved so many lives! You could have saved my son! Instead, you used your powers for yourself, you selfish bastard!" He jabbed Snape's chest with the pistol barrel. "I should kill you right here—right now!"

"So do it," Severus said, spreading his arms wide. As he did, a shadow, deeper than the surrounding darkness, stole through the trees.

"No. I want to see you suffer. I've been planning this for months." Weasley lowered his gun. "You're going to have a little accident. Poor Severus, pining over your lost powers, your ruined career..."

"Which one: professor, Death Eater, or vampire?" Severus glanced at the woodlot again, but saw nothing but calligraphic tree limbs and mist. The first flakes of snow started to drift slowly down.

"Left with nothing, all hope destroyed, the only option left for you is suicide."

"How pathetic," he scoffed. "Now I see where your children get their deplorable lack of imagination."

"Don't you say a word about them!"

Arthur's fist slammed into his nose and sent him staggering into the swings. One of the seats caught his legs, neatly toppling him. As he struggled out of its chains, his face streaming blood, he heard something moving in the bushes. Something large. Something solid. Then a hand fisted his hair and jerked him away, making him grunt.

"Get up! I haven't got all night."

"And if I should refuse to go along with your little scheme?"

"I assume you remember a little thing called the Imperius Curse. Shall we?" He motioned towards the footbridge with his pistol.

"I admire your thoroughness, Arthur," Severus said, making no move to staunch the flow from his nostrils. "It seems you've planned for every contingency."

All but the one that stepped out of the bushes behind Weasley: the tatterdemalion queen wearing the ragged remains of a black trench coat and a crown of cockleburs in her matted hair. What Severus saw next nearly made him gasp. Following Petunia, holding her hand, and wearing a loose sweater coat that barely concealed her rounded abdomen was Hermione.

A look passed from one woman to the other, a silent communication and a pact formed by two vampires from the same Sire. Then Hermione nodded and Petunia began slinking forward.

Wand in one hand and pistol in the other, and completely oblivious, Weasley spread his arms in a grand gesture. "No witnesses and no survivors: it's almost perfect. The only thing missing from tonight's festivities is Hermione. I really thought she'd be—"

"Hungry."

Weasley froze. "What was that?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"What are you playing at?" Weasley shook his pistol at Severus. 

"Hungry!" This time, the raspy voice was louder.

Arthur turned towards the sound too late: Petunia sprang at him with her claw-like hands flexed and her monstrous incisors bared. Caught over-armed, under prepared, and too shocked to rally with a hex, Weasley screamed as she crashed into him. He fell backwards, accidentally discharging the pistol as he did. The first two rounds went high. The next pinged off the swing set.

"Arthur, meet Petunia Dursley, the vampire I never intended to create. I believe you already know her companion."  _Really, Hermione, I didn't. I had no idea. I'm so sorry._  It wasn't much of an excuse or an apology. He glanced helplessly at her.

 _I wanted to come sooner. That is, I did but when I found Petunia, well, I couldn't just leave her,_ Hermione whispered inside his head.  _She's so lonely and confused, Severus. She has no idea what she's done: she doesn't even know what she is! We talked about it. She made a decision._

"Snape, you bastard! You've been planning this all along!" Weasley screamed, struggling to free himself. Then, he saw Hermione. "And you! That Dark Magic inside you will never see daylight!" Another shot rang out. His aim, truer this time, grazed Hermione's arm, tearing a hole in her coat and his next shot, which hit Petunia in the shoulder, did nothing but make her tighten her already lamprey-like hold on his jugular.  _"Incendi-incendi-oh-oohh!"_ Instead of setting his aggressor alight, the flash from his wand ignited the dead leaves around him. Screeching, the two rolled in and out of burning clumps of foliage.

Hermione vanished. Reappearing at Weasley's side, she kicked the gun out of his and snapped his wand like a stick. "There. Now it's almost a fair fight.  _Immolatus!"_ A crimson jet streaked from her fingers and flames erupted over Petunia's back. Greedily, hungrily, they climbed, framing her head in a fiery halo.

Falling victim to the same spell, Arthur's hair and clothing quickly burst into flames. Weakened by Petunia's attack and trapped beneath her, he could do nothing but witness the fate he would soon share. Countless sores erupted over Petunia's face and bare legs. Hissing and sputtering, they spattered him with their sickly yellow contents.

Hermione started away, pulling Severus with her. "Let's go!" Retreating to a safe distance near the footbridge, they watched Arthur make one last lunge for his pistol. As his fingers curled around it, Petunia exploded, spraying him with blood and viscera, and impaling him with pieces of bony shrapnel. One of the fragments slashed his neck. Blood spurted from the wound. Gurgling, flesh blistering, face contorted with rage, he looked up at Severus and Hermione. Hand trembling, he raised his gun.

"Hermione, get down, he's going to—"

"No, he's not. He's never going to hurt anyone ever again." Hermione walked over to where he lay, looked him in the eye, and said, "Goodbye."

Nodding, as if he were either agreeing or following a command, Arthur Weasley put the gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his skull. His body contracted into a fetal position and a wall of blue flame engulfed him.

Hermione stood over the conflagration, watching in silence. More snowflakes drifted down, catching in her long hair. "I'm not angry with you anymore, you know," she finally said. "This came as a bit of a shock, though." Turning to him, she ran her hands over her belly.

He went to her. "Kreacher told me."

"I tried to hide it. I wanted to tell you myself. What a blabbermouth!"

Gathering her close, Severus said, "It was the only thing that kept me going, that kept me strong."

"Your blood trail was brilliant, by the way. Ooh!" Hermione pulled away, gasping.

"What's wrong?"

"She kicks like a mule." Giggling, she placed his hand on one side of her bulge. "All you power: right there, safe and sound." Then, sobering, she looked up at him and said, "We are going to have to wait, you know."

"I don't mind."

Snow fell in earnest, whirling about them. Now, a chorus of shouts erupted from the nearby tenements: "Fire! There's a fire in the park!"

"Where will we go now?" Severus asked.

"As long as we're together, does it matter?"

Soon, sirens split the night, and police and emergency crews converged on the blazing woodlot, creating a macabre carnival atmosphere with their rigs' colored lights and hulking equipment. Crowds of curious onlookers soon followed. In all the excitement, no one noticed the couple walking away from the inferno.

Hand in hand and without a backwards glance, Hermione and Severus left the past in ashes.

 

**_~~~~~~~~~~~~~ * \\\\* Noctem Aeternus *// * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~_ **

 


End file.
